Everything is Not Illuminated
by Va Vonne
Summary: An Auror after the end of the War, Hermione is assigned to investigate a number of murders at a Muggle prep school in London. Away in Azkaban, Draco is given an ultimatum: help Hermione and serve as a bait for the Death Eaters or die in prison. DMxHG
1. Who's Afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf?

**Vonne: **Hello! I've decided to start another story from scratch. This is not a new one, as I've posted a story like this before- however, this time I'm going to take a bit of a new direction. This opening chapter is a rewrite. Anyway, I will make this short by saying that this story contains OCs, but only to make the story flow. Any and all OCs are not included for any reason. This will focus on Hermione and Draco, not on the other characters whatsoever. Thank you so much!

**Summary: **Five years since the end of the War, Hermione Granger is working as an Auror. However, the mission she's been given is a complicated one- many Muggle teenagers have been murdered and the Ministry sends Hermione undercover to a private Muggle prep school to investigate the killings. What Hermione does not expect, however, is for Draco Malfoy to be her partner. In Azkaban accounting for his War crimes, the Ministry gives Draco an ultimatum- pose as bait for the Death Eaters at the prep school and help Hermione Granger put together the pieces of the puzzle, or die in prison. Can Draco and Hermione work together or even survive the struggles of high school again? Or will an entirely new uprising overtake the Wizarding World once and for all?

* * *

_"Came the day when fate did frown and the wolf blew into town. With a gruff "puff-puff" he puffed just enough and the hay house fell right down."_

**

* * *

**

**Chapter One**  
**Who's Afraid of the Big, Bad Wolf?**

In the dead hours of the night, something breathes finally to life.

A sharp and ready inhale, Fenrir Greyback's shadow lurches through the veins of the outstretched tree branches, unseen. His yellow eyes give a cautionary little twitch; he has been waiting for this since the War had ended, he has been waiting for this for five fucking _years_. In the sky, some big, hypothetical clock ticks down the minutes as he watches. Each mental tick brings a jagged smile to the werewolf's ugly and shadow-masked face. Won't be long now, won't be long at all anymore...

Where he was standing currently is someplace in the woods of the campus of a private Muggle high school. Since the conclusion of the War, the murder of Muggles has been only the beginning of the surviving Death Eaters rise back into power. But Fenrir likes them young, as it has been noted. He's been stalking high schools and daycare centers alike, taking pleasure in each and every murder. To shake off the numbness of having lost the War, Fenrir and the other Death Eaters tell themselves that their turmoil is only temporary. Tonight, Fenrir truly believes that it is.

The thing about killing Muggles is that, in the Wizarding World, their deaths don't get much attention. However, it is the amount of unexplained Muggle deaths occurring recently that makes Fenrir swell with pride. He's responsible for the majority of them. It's Rookwood that does most of the dumping. He puts their body parts in different sections of the streets of Hogsmeade, a little warning to the rest of the world that they are still out there. It's been the plan since the beginning- kill of the Muggles, scare the surviving Wizard veterans. It wouldn't be long until they'd gained enough notoriety which is, of course, what their plan is all about anyway.

This murder thing, this simple scare-tactic, it is only the beginning. The Death Eaters, they don't need Voldemort because what they need is the whole wide world. Sure enough, they all came crawling back, ready to start over, ready to try again. It was only the Malfoys, the infamous disappearing scum of the earth, who had not returned back to them. There are no reports about them in the papers except speculation- the Malfoy family, disgraced, had fled. Only their son had remained. But Fenrir and the others know exactly what they want to do with him...

In the woods by the private school campus, Fenrir Greyback braces himself. He does love a good kill. He is, of course, in luck- the very moment he opens his wolfish eyes he spots a cluster of them just by the entrance of the university-like building. Every single fiber of his maliciously evil being twitches responsively to life; it is half past midnight and he hears the sound of oncoming footsteps. Greyback pulls back and sniffs the air before him; he smells cologne and perfume distinctly and knows right away- two boys and two girls. What they're doing on campus a half hour past midnight is beyond him, but he could really care less. Their mistake. Either way, they're laughing and chit-chatting about other things, their eyes directed away from Fenrir, away from his yellow eyes completely.

Fenrir knew the saying, "your high school years are the best years of your life," but the irony of it now made him laugh. The Muggles- the four of them- they'd never experience life past their senior year. If the saying were true, which Fenrir highly doubted anyways, they would never live long enough to test the theory.

"Come on!" It is the voice of one of the Muggle girls, tall and pretty despite her filthy blood. Fenrir can see her pointed features through the glistening moonlight and he scoffs at the way she bothers to present herself. Her brown hair is drawn curtain-like over her thing shoulders. She's wearing her school uniform and a pair of peep-toe high heels. On her face she wears a bright shade of pink rouge. Fenrir can smell the scent of her over excessive lipgloss from where he stands. Cherry. "Come on, we're going to be late!"

Fenrir recognizes the types of girls that the two Muggles are. They're physically attractive and slender. Their faces form in sweet smiles that also have the capacity to twist into ugly grimaces. They're lovely and horrifying all at the same time; popular. Blonde, the girl to the brunette's right is her complete opposite in looks, but Fenrir can see right through that. She wears a band called a 'Scrunchie' around her wrist and has her hair in a rounded ponytail that curls perfectly at the back of her neck. Both girls have hitched their skirts up above their knees. They have unbottoned the tops of their white polo shirts to the point of crushing any sort of imagination entirely. Fenrir merely makes a revolted face. _Disgusting._

As a pair, the Muggle girls support each of the boys by their intertwined fingers. They exhange looks and winks that their male companions miss, but Fenrir certainly does not. He recognizes the boys' type as quickly as he'd recognized the girls'. One is short and pudgy, like Goyle's boy. He wears his school trousers too tight and the bloom of his stomach strikes out over his camel-colored waistband. He hasn't decorated his uniform in the way that the girls have, except for the set of obnoxiously circular spectacles that rest at the bridge of his fat nose. By the looks of him, the appears to have never had much of a social life at all.

And the other boy is not that much better but at least he's not fleshy, and Fenrir gives him that. He's still shorter than the girls, though, and his arms are thin and useless. He has a head of horribly snipped hair that only dangles about a half an inch at his forehead. Its brown, and mousy, and uninteresting. He walks with a hunch and stares dumbly at the brunette girl holding his hand as if he can barely believe it. Though they look like the type of students with A averages and scholarships, Fenrir cannot help but think them to be stupid. Even at a distance, the Death Eater can tell that the girls have taken them out as a joke. He decides that, either way, they all deserve to die.

"Hurry up," giggles the blonde and the fattest boy at the end of her arm blushes, rushing faster across the campus. Fenrir thinks at that moment how much of a little pig he resembles and can't wait to eat him. He wants to huff and puff and blow their houses in, yet he remains put as the silent observer. He does nothing except watch as the two girls lead their piglets in through the opening of the woods and pick up the pace. They're no longer on the campus of the school, but instead in the brush of the woods and Fenrir tears away from the tree trunk that he's gripping to stalk them from the shadows as he marches next to them unnoticed.

One of them says, "it's right through this way, here," and even Fenrir looks ahead. He sees the clearing that the girls have pointed the boys to, but that is not what catches his attention. Rather, he sees the unblinking eyes of two other figures in the dark. They wear masks and hoods, but they are big and muscular. They are Muggles; Fenrir can tell by their matching school sweatshirts and their rather disgraceful scent. Hidden behind the bushes, their fingers wrap around the bodies of something the werewolf recognizes as chainsaws. There is no cord in it, however; he was right, the girls have brought the boys out into the woods to scare them. It's nothing more than a prank.

When the girls stop the boys in the middle of the clearing, they instruct them to sit down. "Do you know what tonight is?" asks the blonde and Fenrir thinks he knows before any sort of answer is given. He waits for one of them to speak up, waits to test his guess.

"N-No," stumbles the chubby boy, his hands still wrapped within the blonde's. He doesn't know; Fenrir is not surprised.

"It's the one-month anniversary," whispers the blonde. The boy makes a face and she continues with casual infatuation, "the freshmen boys that were killed four weeks ago. Their bodies were found _here_," she proclaims, "right in this very spot."

Elated, Fenrir can take credit for the killings that the blonde is talking about; he was the one that had done it, of course. They had been too easy of a kill, but still worth something. The Muggle community had been in an absolute panic. Once the boys died, chaos had ensued. News stations advised that doors be locked at night, that citizens kept their eyes peeled. He'd heard one news anchor ask, "who among us would do such a thing?" and he'd laughed at the pitiful question. He wonders what Muggle England would think once they'd found out who really murdered the boys. He wonders now if they'd even believe it.

Nonetheless, the most that the 'police' had found of the boys was scraps of their clothing and bits of their hair. They were dead, though, and there was certainly no denying that. Rookwood and Avery had been delighted when he'd brought the bodies back to the Wizarding World, all dead and rotting and mutilated as they were. The Carrows had taken great pleasure in placing their body parts throughout their sleepy town. Of course, the Ministry of Magic had done a fair job of covering it up. But as long as they could pretend it wasn't happening, Fenrir and the others would always have their motivation. Now he only thinks joyously of how many more he has to kill until they finally start listening?

He looks back on the four Muggles seated in the middle of the clearing and the two unseen Muggles hidden behind the bushes. Perhaps they'd listen when six more bodies show up in the dead of the night. Fenrir licks his lips; he can hardly wait.

"Right here?" the skinny Muggle boy looks down at the ground. It is the first time he has looked away from the brunette girl over the course of the entire night. "S-Should we even be here?"

Making a pout, the blonde fixes her face so that she looks so deflated in the lack of light. "What?" she asked in a tone that is only mockingly hurt, "don't have any sense of adventure?"

"Course he does!" pipes up the other boy, and he gives his slender friend a stern look before turning away. Fenrir wonders how long they'd been conversing about meeting the two Muggle girls at the school campus. They are the type of boys that Fenrir can see discussing it for weeks. They look shaky and uneasy, as if they are trying their damndest to remain cool and collected. Fenrir can smell the fear on them, however, as much as they are trying to hide it. They are weak and the girls are naive. In the werewolf's mind, both are equally as pathetic. When the girls look away to exchange mischievous glances, the pudgy Muggle whispers to his friend through clenched teeth, _"shut up, Simon!"_

"But," asks the boy, Simon, "why are _we_ here?" He is so innocent when he asks it. It makes Fenrir sick.

"It's romantic, don't you think?" Fenrir hears the blonde ask. She speaks to the chubby boy, pulling his chin up with the tips of her long and polished pink fingernails. "Don't you think, Shelly?" The blonde gets a bobble-head nod in response. Her smile practically touches her ears. Nonetheless, she slips her hand around 'Shelly's' rounded shoulders and places her hand on the bulge of his crotch. She giggles when his eyes widen, as if he's never been touched there before in his life. "I've always noticed you around at school, you know," she lies.

"You have?"

"_Mmm_," hums the blonde. Then she turns to Simon and her brunette friend, cocking her thumb out towards the two of them directly. "And Jenna's always had her eye out for you, Simon."

Simon looks at the brunette, who has now been deemed 'Jenna'. Fenrir could care less about their names; they would not need them in death. "You've noticed me?" he asks, and his voice is nothing more than a whisper. Jenna looks at the blonde and smiles. When she turns back to Simon she is nodding furiously, a strand of brown hair falling loosely over her boney shoulders.

"Course I have," she tells him, running a hand up to massage a single shoulder. She does not reach towards the middle of his legs, but Simon does not seem to be jealous of 'Shelly' in the slightest. Fenrir notices that he is happy to have been touched at all. "Haven't you noticed me?"

"Yes!" Simon practically chokes on the words. "I've a-always n-noticed you, Jenna" he's telling her, "I've noticed you since f-freshman year..." Simon looks embarrassed, red in the face after his admission. Jenna only giggles.

Fenrir pauses for a moment. He isn't quite sure what it is he's stumbled upon, but he knows he's hit the jackpot. He could care less about the boys and the tricks that they've been so naive to believe. The girls have made it too easy, they've given him free range to do whatever he pleases with them. At their ignorance, Fenrir stifles a laugh. They all deserve it anyway- their blood is just that filthy.

"Close your eyes," the blonde instructs and Fenrir regards their little game once again. Fat and flustered, 'Shelly' obeys instantly, his eyes rolling back into his skull as the blonde works her magic at the base of his trousers. Simon, however, is a bit more reluctant. Fenrir watches from the shadows as Simon watches Jenna, the two held in a staring contest for only a short matter of seconds before Jenna gives him the go-ahead. Then, as if safe, Simon lets his lashes flutter shut as well.

But the two girls do not lean in and kiss them, as the boys may have expected. It is the blonde, however, who acts first. She pulls out a bleak and beige potato sack from her knapsack. Taking advantage of 'Shelly's' shut eyelids, she extends the front of the bag and stretches it out wide before slamming it forcefully over the boy's round head. 'Shelly' lets out a little scream, and Simon, responsively, pulls open the shutters of his eyes. He is too late, however; Jenna has already whisked out her matching sack. In an instant, she has Simon's head covered, as well.

'Shelly's' voice is muffled when he cries out desperately, _"please!"_ and Simon only struggles to fight off a far stronger Jenna on top of him. However, the two spare Muggle boys from the bushes finally step out and the girls allow them to take over. In the trapped boys' ears, they sound off their noisy chainsaws.

"Hey!" Held down by the bigger Muggle boys, 'Shelly' is perhaps the most frantic of the two. He kicks and punts uselessly, emitting only a laugh from his captor. His stubby little legs reel around in circles. His short arms are useless and swinging. He hits nothing and instead makes a dash for the bag on his head, only to be knocked back away from it by the boy on top of him. The blonde is smiling so wide that her vibrant gums are showing. Her eyes twinkle and she rocks back and forth at the back of her pointed high heels. She's enjoying this far too much and, in a moment, Fenrir will be too.

The very second that Simon and 'Shelly' know they've been duped, it is already far too late. They flinch and cry out at the sound of the chainsaw at their ears, cringe when they feel the hot breath down the back of their exposed necks. Though the prank has been carried out just to scare the two boys, Fenrir is more than happy to take it to a whole different level. He steps from the bushes because he has been waiting to do so forever. He doesn't make himself seen but instead steadies his wand. He aims for the fat one first. 'Shelly' is still struggling underneath the toned athletic Muggle boy with the hacked up chainsaw.

"_Avada Kedavra_!" Fenrir hisses and- _my God_- it feels so good just to say it. It is like he was never exiled at all in the first place; the way the binding light hits 'Shelly' is almost therapeutic. The boy makes a little animalistic squeal and then he's dead, just like that.

"What the _bloody hell _was that?" Jenna is screaming and the muscular Muggle on top of 'Shelly' glances up, sputters back, and searches around. He's heaving and panting as if he's run miles. His face is wet and dripping with sweat. He looks almost guilty. "Did you _see _that bright light?"

Hidden beneath the barricade of branches, Fenrir sits back and listens to the confusion. He watches Simon as he pulls the potato sack from off of his head. His hair sticks out in all different directions and he glances down once at his fallen plushy friend. A look of horror spreads wide across his rather unfortunate features. He had not been the best looking boy before, but now he manages to look just about ghastly. When he pulls forward to reach out a hand against his friend's shoulder, he cries out, "Sheldon?" His face is struck and panicked. He looks pale, paler even, than before. "Sheldon?" Simon's twiggy hands pull and pluck at Sheldon's bloated body.

Fenrir smiles as the blonde scrambles away from the dead boy. She's frantic and its spectacular. "What did you do to him?" roars the boy still straddling him. He turns around and his tomato face his glaring right at her, accusatory.

"I-I d-didn't do a-anything to him!" She's red in the face and she doesn't look so pretty anymore. Instead she's nothing more than disheveled and unkempt. Eyes wide and dripping, she's clinging on to Jenna and bouncing up and down saying, "I didn't d-do anything to him, Jen, you saw me! I _swear_!"

Fenrir loves the way the five remaining Muggles look. They're nothing more than sheep and now, more than ever, he's happy to be a wolf. Caught up in the chaos, the lot of them fumble around the body, shaking, and rocking, and rattling. Fenrir loves the way they refuse to accept 'Shelly's' death. He flashes his crooked teeth just for the hell of it. He thinks, _rattle his cage all you want, little pups, that bird's never coming out... ._

_"_Is he dead?" one of them asks and its a stupid question because Fenrir already knows the answer to this. He waits for them to check his pulse, waits for them to put their ear to his chest and find out that his heart is no longer beating. "He's not breathing!"

The blonde is grabbing her roots at her skull and she looks like a jack-o-lantern with all that fake tan. She's saying, "I didn't!" and shaking her pumpkin head back and forth.

Jenna, she's speechless, but she's the only one. Numb and fuzzy, she looks like she is going to pass out while the two athletic Muggles above her shout in sync, "oh G-God! Oh, _fuck!"_

Simon, he's blubbering, "S-Sheldon? _Sh.. Sheldon?" _It's far too delicious to go to waste.

When Fenrir steps forward again, he's _itching_ to watch another one drop. "_Avada Kedavra_!" Like flies they drop and this time its one of the athletic boys. He falls so fast its almost funny; Fenrir nearly _loses_it when the blonde screams with blood-curling passion.

"Oh my _God!_" she's sputtering. It's pathetic and Fenrir _loves_ it. _"Ryan!"_

Then they're all standing with their eyes searching around in the woods and the tallest Muggle boy find Fenrir's yellow eyes in the darkness. It is something that Fenrir does not expect, but not something that he can't handle. He smirks and lifts his wand, pointing it at the boy before he can even identify him there. He mutters the Unforgivable. Goodbye dirty Muggle, goodbye, useless waste of space. This time, the remaining four scramble.

Simon is on the floor, his body crouched over Sheldon's and he's shaking and its perfect. The blonde's on her feet, her back pressed against Jenna's. She's crying and stammering. There's snot coming out of her nose, spit dripping out of her mouth. She doesn't look so pretty when she knows she's about to die. And, only because he can't stand the grotesque sight of her, Fenrir picks her next. However, because he likes to play with his food, he waits a moment in the blackness. The blonde is heaving now, holding her stomach and whirling around. She's saying, "oh God, Jenna, w-we've got to get out of here!" and she almost stumbles of Simon on the floor in the process.

When Fenrir shuffles, however, neither of them are left standing still. Even Simon sputters upwards, his pupils dilated and his mouth agape. He looks so stupid, but they all do and Fenrir's come to expect that. He watches, amused, as they run around in circles. They're all crying and to Fenrir it sounds like music to his ears. He can hear the way their feet scrape and scramble against the brush below the soles of their shoes and he watches the leaves fly out from underneath them. It goes in slow motion and Fenrir wants to savor it.

_God,_ he thinks as he watches them dart off, _how I've missed the hunt._

The blonde one, she's the slowest. Sometime in the process of running, she'd lost her '_Scrunchie'_. Fenrir's foot stomps on it as he yells out the curse and points his wand at the nape of her shivering back. Then she's hit and she falls to the floor of the wood in fractions, just by Jenna's scampering feet. First her knees hit, then her head, slapping against a nearby rock and sending a collection of maroon liquid pooling out from the side of her pretty little head. _Dead, dead, dead, as a doornail. _Fenrir never really liked that saying. On the ground of the leaf-covered wood, the blonde Muggle girl looked as dead as something else- something squashed.

Spinning around, however, Fenrir realizes that he's lost something- the two of them, Simon and Jenna. They're gone. Fenrir spins to one side; no one. He looks over his shoulder; gone. He can smell them, but faintly. The scent of their fear is fading in his nostrils. He can hear them screaming, but just barely. For a moment, he thinks that he will try and follow them, however, something stops him dead in his tracks. Letting them go would be bloody brilliant- a fucking spectacular end to his gory masterpiece.

Let them tell everyone else what they saw or what they thought they saw. Let the myths and the urban legends be created from this night. Let them know. This was only the beginning.

* * *

**Vonne: **My apologies for the short first chapter! I promise that the rest will be a lot longer than this, which is, of course, only the opening. Please note that any and all OCs are not included for any reason other than to create story flow. This will focus on Hermione and Draco, not on the other characters whatsoever. Thank you!


	2. The Rising Sun

**Vonne: **As usual, I am going to respond back to all those that have reviewed at the beginning of each chapter. Unfortunately, I don't have much time this week, but I wanted to say thank you to all of you that sent me some feedback. It is greatly appreciated!

Thank you: **Lola La Lola**, **EVAN**, **Miss. Lila-Russel**, **Milo**, **Carl**, **Psychic City**, **MCLanna**, **LivelyMcBrighten**, and **LeCandeh**.

And as expected, chapter two...

**

* * *

**

_"There is a house in New Orleans_ t_hey call the Rising Sun_. _Well it's been the ruin of many a poor boy_, _a__nd God, I know, I'm one."_**  
**

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Two**  
**It's Called the Rising Sun**

_Run, run, run, run; hurry up! Oh God, he's there right behind you! Can't you feel the breathing? Hurry or he'll get you... _

_The moon was is full, and so bright, and so large that it looks like the white light emitting from it is about to devour the world underneath him. Everything feels like pins and needles and pain, but he just keeps running because- oh God- he is going to die tonight if he doesn't. He can sense the panting breaths of the thing that is running after him. Every inhale and exhale sends shivers up his spine and makes him stumble in his step. And he runs down the marble balcony of his family's large Manor as the footsteps grow profoundly louder._

_He lets out a little scream when he sees the sight of his mother's mangled white peacock and its discarded feathers strewn across all that stretch of emerald. He even almost loses his footing in the grass because of it. But its the rattling growl from behind him that snaps him back to reality. The fast and horrible breaths of the predator at his back keeps his mind on the woods, and he finally breaks through them in a move of merciless desperation._

_He is in the dark._

_He can't see a thing, can't even see the swiftly moving whirls of his fists as they bob up and down before his eyes. He can only see the shine of his black leather oxfords and the glisten of sweat as it trickle down his face. The black sky is obscured by the twine of the trees and the veiny way in which they float crooked through the air. He can only see the moon and how full, and fat, and round it is. There is no smiling man in it- not tonight- because tonight he is all alone._

_Already he can taste the iron flavor of blood in his mouth; he's bitten down on his lip but now his entire face is numb. Only, the scent of his blood draws the predator behind him on; he loves the very stench of it, lived for it, killed for it. Even the sound of the wind around him screams warnings of his death, the prophecy of his impending doom whistling out to him in the air. It screams and hollers, sobs even. Every ounce of the world warning, "if you don't hurry up, he's gonna do it for you..."_

_And then once again he's out; just like a light, just like that.  
_

x x x x x x x x

When Draco Malfoy wakes up he is covered in a puddle of sweat. His panting breaths are masked under the occasional drip of plumbing that leaks near the side of his head. Only, he stares into the dark and his gray eyes survey the scenery; he is not in the woods behind the Manor, but instead a six by eight foot prison cell in Azkaban. It's where he's been for five years- since the end of the War. Nights like these are nights he hates, though waking up in the blackness from consistent nightmares is not a new thing to him. Blond hair sticking to his perspiring skull, Malfoy sinks back down low into the rusty old mattress. It squeaks under his weight and he is fairly certain that he can hear the chuckle of his cell neighbor laughing at him through the bars.

His eyes lock in with the ceiling above him, adjusting to the shadows. He does not bother to pull the flimsy white sheets above his shivering torso, for he knows that it will do him no good. Though he has been locked within the confines of Azkaban for just under sixty months, he still has not grown used to the living conditions. It is chilly and damp and unpleasant. His cell reminds him of the Cellar at the Manor and makes him think back to time he wishes to forget. His dream tonight, for instance, is a rather annoyingly reoccurring one. It resurfaces in his mind's eye only to taunt him, to remind him of the inevitable truth: his parents were wrong- they always had been.

They were not liars, but there was, of course, no mistaking it; there _were_ monsters under his bed and creatures hiding in the closet. They were called Death Eaters, and Draco had a world of experience with them. Thus, everything he has ever been told otherwise is a fabrication and he hates finding it out now, trapped and locked up. But this is what he gets- this is what he deserves- isn't it? A stone cold cell with a life sentence and a world of bitterness. He gets letters in Azkaban, too. It's hate mail and the prison guards love to let him read the collection of them. Most of the time the Wizarding World writes to remind him of his place, of his crimes. They write in the names of their dead family members, casualties of the War; they are people he has never touched or even met. Draco is disillusioned now, not a twenty-two year old man, but instead the same seventeen year old boy he'd been back then. When he closes his eyes at night and hopes to sleep peacefully, he is not even granted that sort of pleasure.

Tonight, however, Draco Malfoy has given up on sleeping. Rather, he tries to rid his mind from the voices of his mother- bless her- and his father- may he rest in peace- and instead tries to think of nothingness. Nothingness, however, only leads him back to the War, to the night he'd stumbled from Hogwarts in handcuffs. The trial, he'd heard, had been all over the papers. He had never really stood a chance in the long run, anyway and, in the end, it had been the Dark Mark that had convicted him. In the night he groans at it now, wincing at the slightly faded demeanor it has taken on at the surface of his pale forearm. He pushes it under the covers and bites down furiously at his bottom lip.

He remembers with great distain, his very first night there and how he did not sleep whatsoever. He remembers being led hastily into his prison cell and being tossed his prison clothes. He remembers how he couldn't believe that it had been happening then and, even now, Draco Malfoy has a hard time grasping it. He recalls standing in the middle of his cell and not being able to stand up straight. He was only seventeen then and the War had only just ended. They took away his wand before the trail, and of course he'll _never_ forget that. He wonders where they've kept it, wonders if they've _even_ kept it, and _oh God, if they haven't kept it a great big piece of him will be missing and he doesn't think he'll ever be full again._

It's been years, but Draco still feels like it has only been the first week. He is never going to get used to Azkaban, and that much he knows. It is, of course, so heavily different from the magnificent house that he had grown up in. His room is cold and damp. There's a small toilet in the corner and Draco is certain that it's placed near the front of the bars just to embarrass him. His bed isn't much of an improvement, either. It's tiny, and miniscule, and crooked. His feet stick off the edges when he sleeps straight. There is only one window in his cell and it is the one at the very back of his dorm. It's barred thickly and it looks out into the ocean that surrounds the putrid place. Afternoons are stormy and gray anyway. Draco doesn't look out of his window much anymore.

Though he's tried to stay away from the other inmates, he has only gotten so far with trying to keep up his solitude. Draco has been beaten up several times in Azkban. He's starting to loose count, its been so many. Every ache and pain in his body serves as a reminder. He's had three concussions and he's broken a countless number of ribs. It's not, of course, as if the prison guards care too much about the bruises that he's garnered over the years of inmate quarrels, either. Mostly, he sleeps them off. Draco doesn't know how he has lasted so long in prison.

His father had only lasted four years. Though Draco had barely been allowed to see him, he remembers the gaunt way his face had deteriorated. Lucius Malfoy did not look like the strong and handsome man that he had once resembled. The months leading up to his death had almost masked the man completely; ghostlike and haunted, Lucius' death had almost seemed long awaited. The Wizarding World, of course, had loved the story._ 'Infamous Death Eater dies in Prison'_, the papers had said. They ate it up. They _lived _for that kind of happy ending.

Draco Malfoy has not yet got his happy ending but that's okay because he isn't expecting one. Last he'd heard, though, Potter, Weasley, and Granger have done very well for themselves. Scoffing, Draco blinks unsteadily into the darkness. He doesn't want to think about Potter and his friends and their life after the War. He doesn't want to think about anything at all, really, but he can't escape the throws of awareness that just won't let him be. Bitterly, he thinks to himself, _'that's the problem with prison life, I suppose; I've been left with all the time in the world to let my mind run.'_

He's aware that he has snapped a bit since his sentence, though he has not yet gone completely off of his rocker. He puts on a pleasant face when his mother comes to visit him, smiling softly at her through the bars that she is not allowed to come within a certain number of feet of. Narcissa Malfoy has escaped prison time for her assistance of Harry Potter in the War and, for that at least, Draco is glad. His mother was never set out for prison. He tells her this sometimes when she sobs to him during her visits, wishing to reach out and touch her tear-stained face gently. He says to her, "don't worry, Mum, I'm okay, see?" and he flashes her a smile that is an unfortunate give-away of his shaky condition. "When I get out, we'll get a nice house just like the Manor and I'll take care of you."

He means it, too, every single bit of it. All Draco Malfoy wants now is to get out of Azkaban prison and live with his mother. He has no other real life goals, not anymore at least. He can't imagine blending into a society that does not want him and, still rather vain, he does not want to have to suck-up to gain acceptance, anyways. Besides, Narcissa Malfoy needs him and, as her one and only son, he owes it to her.

Even now, he knows that she was never, ever a bad mother. She doesn't deserve her trauma, doesn't deserve her misery. Behind the bars of his cell, he wishes that he could make it right. She's lost her husband and, as much as it eats away at Draco, it eats away at her, too.

On several of her visits, Draco's stunning mother tells him she can't sleep at night because the house is so lonely. It's too big of a house for just one person. She tells him of the nightmares she has and how she spends nights without any sleep at all. She tells him that she hates it; she hates being alone. Often, she tells him that she wishes she could switch places with him because, given the chance, she surely would. She wants to see him out and living life like a normal twenty-two year old. In between broken hearted cries, she tells him that he's young. He's just so young.

Narcissa wipes unsteadily at her tears. She doesn't carry a handkerchief anymore; she uses the sleeve of her expensive silk dresses instead. In the darkness, she always comes looking like only a ghost of her previous self. She appears like an odd apparition to Malfoy, a figure that he wants so badly to soothe, and comfort, and heal. She shakes her head and tells him time and time again that she's sorry- she's so, so sorry.

"It's my fault, Draco," she sobs to him in between hiccups. "It's my fault and I will never forgive myself."

He tells her no, its not, its his and he was stupid. But Narcissa is in hysterics and _oh, God he really hates seeing her like this. _She cries all the time; Draco hasn't seen his pretty mother smile in years and it kills him. She used to be so beautiful and so stunning and she still is, but its fading and Malfoy can see it. A whole year without her husband has finally gotten to her. She really, truly loved him. Now she looks slightly aged and disheveled. It pains Draco just to watch her talk to him and he hates seeing her so sad.

She gets led away by the prison guards after a short while and Draco hears her crying down the hallway. The same neighbor in the cell next to him laughs loudly and every time, Draco cringes. He wants to punch that guy. So it goes.

"Have a bad dream?" It is his cell mate, one of the only Death Eaters that had been caught after the War with him. Antonin Dolohov. Unlucky, Draco is not surprised to have a Death Eater placed so close to his cell. He thinks that the prison guards have done is on purpose. Either way, Dolohov is there and, through countless nights, he strives to remind Draco of his presence. His words cut through the night and Malfoy sits still in his bed, frozen. He presses his stone eyes shut. He wills himself not to answer. "I think I remember this one, too, you know..."

Though Draco has spent years in a cell next to Dolohov, he has not uttered a single word to him. It is Dolohov who does all the talking. Mostly he whispers subtle comments through the stone walls of the barriers between the two of them. He takes great pleasure in poking fun at the awful dreams that plague Malfoy's miserably long-winded nights. Most of the time, is he happy to hear when his name is uttered from Draco Malfoy's sleeping lips, begging for his life. It is the dreams of his past that Dolohov loves listening to most; it feeds his ego and supplies him with enough ammo to throw back at him the very moment that he wakes up sputtering.

"You dreaming about Greyback again, are you?" muses Dolohov this time, as if he is almost disappointed to have been left out. Pursing his lips and elevating his tone, Dolohov puts on his best imitation of the Fenrir the werewolf, mocking Malfoy almost giddily. He says, "_here kitty, kitty, kitty_," and kisses the air in the dark.

"_Shut up!_" Malfoy's response comes through clenched teeth. His eyes are pressed so tightly shut that he is seeing stars, but Dolohov's impression sends shivers down his spine and makes him feel weak all over again.

"Struck a cord, have I?" smirks Dolohov. "Poor boy...". He draws out his words like a snake, finally drowning out his speech into a fit of silent chuckles and Draco wills himself not to listen. Dolohov continues on, however. He spits insults and rambles on about the past that Malfoy tries so desperately to tune out. To take his mind off of the man, Malfoy counts the hypothetical sheep that do not even bother to jump over his bed. He wants to fall asleep, even if it means having another nightmare. It is, however, an almost impossible feat.

And then Dolohov's starting all over again. "We were going to kill you," he says after a short while. "Did you know that, Draco? Did you know that we were going to kill you?"

Malfoy doesn't say a word. In truth, however, he had expected it. Failing to kill Albus Dumbledore had certainly not put him in the greatest position with the Dark Lord. With his eyes still shut, Draco remembers a time when he'd asked his father, who had told him no, they were not going to kill him, but give him a second chance instead. He wonders now how much of that had been true, or how long they had simply planned on keeping him alive until they ended his life anyway. He guesses it doesn't really matter now, but the way Dolohov says it makes him sick and nauseous all at the same time and Malfoy's fingers clench the sheets for balance.

"I would have liked that..." Dolohov continues, "I would have liked to see that look on your mother's face." With an overwhelming tone of distaste, he adds spitefully, "frigid old bitch."

Malfoy is up from the covers in an instant. He bee-lines across the cold ground of his prison cell, bare feet numb and aching in the night. He can't see Dolohov's face, but he pounds on the thick wall separating them. _"SHUT UP!" _He's saying and he's almost embarrassed that he's let Dolohov get to him; he can hear his giggles even through the thick barrier between them. "_SHUT UP!" _Draco Malfoy hates it here, hates Dolohov and all the others. He sends a swift kick against the stone and hisses in pain as he hears the bones in his uncovered foot crack. When he's finished his go at the wall, he sinks down to the floor, his back against the wall, and buries his face in the palms of his sweaty hands.

One glance down at his toe and he sees that he's bleeding. It is, by far, not the first time that he's injured himself during his prison stay, but the guards don't take much interest in such minor injuries. Miserable, Draco watches the pool of red blood trickle out from his bloody foot. Blood falls out from the puncture in his skin and blends in with the cracks of the stone flooring below him. It'll stain there, the blood, but it is not the first one that will have been made.

Malfoy ignores Dolohov when he whispers through the walls, "you're loosing it, Draco Malfoy," and erupts into a fit of laughter that reminds him of his time at the Malfoy Manor all over again.

However, a new sound makes him jump. Something creeks and a single ray of fractioned light seeps into the dark hallway before him. There are steps, but they are slow and echoing. A few cries sound out and Malfoy hears the mews of begging prisoners. Nonetheless, Dolohov's voice is the one to catch him first. "Looks like you've done it now, Draco," he whispers, and Malfoy can almost picture the sadistic smile he knows is creeping on to his lips. "Now you've _really_ pissed them off."

Dolohov is talking about the guards, of course, and Malfoy finds himself immensely relieved that the Ministry has outlawed the use of Dementors in Azkaban. Still, he looks up at the sound of the footsteps. He regrets moving from his bed in the first place, feels his stomach flip nervously in his torso as the steps continue out towards his cell, stopping finally once they reach the bars. And when Draco looks up he sees them; three professional and profoundly dressed men stand staring through the cell almost expectantly. He recognizes the centered man instantly.

"Mr. Malfoy," Kingsley Shacklebolt says and his voice is deep and almost curiously soothing. Draco Malfoy has not seen Kingsley in years, but he's heard of his new position as Minister of Magic; its been talked about all over the news.

Draco only looks up. He's exhausted and the minute motion is just about all he has left in him.

"Get up." It is not Kingsley that commands this, but one of the guards to his left. He is not gentle when he says it, but cold and slate-like. Without wasting another moment, Draco fumbles to his feet. Not even Dolohov dares to laugh.

A bit stand offish, Kingsley raises a single brow. He regards Draco for a moment and takes in the sight of his bowed blond head. Draco's prison clothes are torn and stained and rancid. His wrists are almost raw from the chains. Though he cannot see it clearly, Kingsley suspects that the dark spots at the top of Draco's pale cheeks are nothing more than a pair of deep purple bruises. "Mr. Malfoy," he says once again after a long while, "I'd like a word, if I may."

They seized the lock to his cell and Draco felt a huge weight lift off his shoulders when the thing swung open. In a daze, he only watched Kingsley, regardless of the two bulky guards that grabbed hold of him and hoisted him two inches off the floor. They made past the Minister swiftly, Malfoy's eyes remaining put on his dark features until he was whirled around and carried, between the two, down the hall and passed his fellow prisoners, ignoring the hisses and the begging and the sneers.

Kinglsey only walked slowly behind him, his wand pitched in between the thickness of his bulky fingers. Malfoy could feel the man's large eyes on his back even when they'd broken through the main prison area and shuffled into the interrogation room. He had been, however, distracted. When he was thrown into a small chair at the end of a squared metal table, he almost not even expected them to wrap a pair of freezing cold chains around his wiry wrists. At the sight of them there, of course, Draco fell out of his haze. He glanced down curiously at his wrists, noting that he was only able to lift them several centimeters before looking back up at Kingsley and the dual Azkaban guards again.

Hands behind their backs, they stood erect at the end of the room. Their lips were pressed tightly shut and they looked immensely discontent. However, it was Kingsley who was the first to speak. He managed, nonetheless, to surprise Draco by choosing to address the guards first. "If you please," he said with great power. "I'd like a moment alone with Mr. Malfoy."

Stunned, the two prison guards exchange looks. They stand stilly for a moment before complying; they cannot argue with the Minister of Magic. Yet, they pass their prisoner a set of similarly unbecoming glares before disappearing completely through the doors in which they'd arrived as four through. Thus, it is then just Kingsley and Draco alone and, for a long moment, not a word is said. Only Malfoy wishes that the Minister will go away. He does not want to be bugged tonight, does not want to be reminded of his current sentence or be delivered another hate mail. He just wants sleep, despite the odds that are stacked up against him; Dolohov will be waiting when he gets back. Yet, the thought of that alone makes Malfoy look up.

"How long's it been, Mr. Malfoy?" Kingsley asks rather kindly. He is not smiling, but there is some state of sympathy about him. Draco wonders if he really looks that bad; he has not seen himself in a proper mirror for quite some time. "Five years?"

"Five years, three months, and twenty-seven days," Draco says instinctively. He's been counting, but he regrets informing the Minister of this. He did not want anyone to know.

Kinglsey nods his head. Once. It is a solemn act. "Ah," he says, "you've been keeping track."

Malfoy says nothing to this but, for the record, he _has_ been keeping track.

Draco has got nothing better to do in prison, since he associates with no one and keeps timidly to himself. He keeps track of an ample amount of other things, too. So far, he's memorized the exact number of stones in his prison cell. He's also kept track of how many drops of water hit the ground when the ceiling leak kicks in per minute. He doesn't need to state this out loud, and he doesn't; all it does is render him pathetic and, despite his prison years, he's still too prideful for that.

Instead, Malfoy clears his throat and tries to sound as defiant as he once had, before Azkaban and the War altogether. "Is that what you've come to ask me?" he asks, hands aching from the metal hooks around his wrists. "If I've been 'keeping track'?"

Regarding him for a moment, Kingsley shuts his eyes and breaths out through his nose. He squares away his shoulders and says grimly, "I'm afraid not."

Leaning back, Malfoy continues to try his best and make himself appear as he once had. He spreads his arms as wide as the bindings will allow. "Well, then, by all means," he responds, "if you've come to engage me with small talk, you're in luck. I've got all the time in the world, you see."

"I have not come for a chit-chat, either, Mr. Malfoy," Kingsley clarifies. He does not seem the least bit phased by Malfoy's comments. Instead, he manages to remain all the more serious. "I have," he says instead, "some bad news."

"Bad news?" Everything hardened that Draco has tried to put together has crumbled. He thinks of his mother. Something about him breaks completely. He thinks of all the bad things in the world and prays that none of them have occurred. But then he thinks of the Death Eaters and how they're still out there. A ping of unimaginable woe rushes through him and his only hope is that his mother has not been done in.

Nodding, Kingsley takes his precious time to speak again. When he opens his mouth, however, he quickly dispels Malfoy's worry. "As I am sure you are aware, there have been many Muggle murders over the past couple months." He pauses, takes a second to let his information sink in. However, Malfoy is only taking his time to let himself calm down. He presses his eyes shut and tries to collect himself. His mother is still alive and, regaining a steady breath, he is happy to have not been left alone on the earth. Though Malfoy's eyes are closed, he hears Kingsley clear his throat before beginning again. "Did you hear me, Draco?" he asks.

Malfoy's eyes slip back open. He nods once and lets the Minister continue. When Kingsley begins again, he's saying, "we have every reason to believe that the remaining Death Eaters are responsible for the killings." He takes a breath, considering how to phrase his next sentence. A bit uncomfortably, he settles on, "in order to rebuild a new uprising." It is not a complete sentence, but it will do. It certainly has taken him courage to admit it, however. Still, Draco notes, he's done a better job than that idiot Cornelius Fudge.

Draco lifts an eyebrow. He's confused, but outraged nonetheless. He's spent more than five years behind bars and now he wants nothing to do with the community of the Wizarding World around him. It's almost strange to hear the current events, he feels so isolated. And yet, the Ministry had already done so much to keep Draco away from their society. He wonders what Kingsley's purpose for informing him is and frowns furiously. "So?" he asks, lifting up his wrists to show him the shackles that, apparently, he'd missed before. "Clearly, I'm not the one responsible."

Kingsley takes in the chains. He nods once, curtly. "Right, well," he says, "I can assure you that your involvement is not the issue."

"And yet," Draco asks, fuming, "you still are trying to involve me?"

Stalling only for a moment, the Minister registers Draco's heated gaze and clears his throat. He does not waste time beating the bush. "Yes," he answers him bluntly.

Hands bound, Draco can hardly believe it. He wants nothing more than to return back to his cell where he'd been ordered to spend a large chunk of his days in. He wants Kingsley to go away, to fall off a cliff. The Ministry had stripped him of his wand and his dignity and now, after everything, they'd wanted his help? Draco can hardly take in the sight of him. He imagines that his father would be tossing and turning in his very grave. With an immense amount of sarcasm, Draco spits, "and how, Mr. Shacklebolt, can I help you?"

The Minister doesn't even flinch. Rather, he speaks point-blankly, as if he is trying to state his words as clearly and quickly as he can. Draco wonders if he is in some sort of hurry. "A vast majority of the killings are taking place in Muggle London. It seems that the Death Eaters are trying to start with those that they view as lower... eventually, we presume that they will try and work their way 'up'. However, what the Ministry knows currently is that, for one reason of another, they have been targeting the young." He stops, adjusting in his seat. "Lately, there have been several killed at Boulstridge Academy, a Muggle prep school."

Draco only blinks as a response. He's still having trouble deciphering how any of this has to do with him.

"We've already assigned one of our Aurors to investigate but we fear that the Death Eaters will not be afraid to stand up to a single force. What we need is," Kingsley pauses, searching for the words, "someone who can serve as a partner."

Malfoy is buzzing. "And so you've decided that a suitable partner should be _me?" _He feels completely held down by the chains at his wrists, but he wants to lunge at the foolish man anyways. He's not stupid; he knows there is a catch. When Kinglsey nods in agreement with Draco's latest statement, Malfoy retorts, "why's that?"

This, however, makes the Minister squirm. Malfoy knows; he had not been expecting that one. It doesn't matter though, not now, because he can afford being challenging and he can get away with asking questions. Draco Malfoy really just has nothing left to loose. Of course, it takes a slight moment for Kingsley to answer back. He's been caught and he tries to struggle his way out of admitting the truth before he decides to simply give in. Thus, the large and broad man squares away his shoulders and locks eyes with Malfoy intently. He clears his throat and, as he does so, Draco simply waits.

"What the Ministry needs," Kingsley says bluntly, "is someone who is likely to get the Death Eaters' attention."

Kingsley appears almost discontent when he says it, but Malfoy hears him clearly. What the Ministry needs is bait. "How kind of them to offer me the position," Malfoy hisses and Kingsley doesn't even flinch. Draco, however, is about ready to burst. He swears to himself that, if it weren't for the chains, he'd have gone completely mental. "Well, Mr. Shacklebolt," he manages to sneer bitterly, "I regret to inform you and the Ministry that the lot of you are out of luck."

"I'm sure," Kingsley says, almost unexpectedly unaffected, "that you will change your mind." Draco only scoffs. Kingsley, however, takes his chance to speak again. "If- and only _if,_ Mr. Malfoy- you do your job correctly, then the Ministry has agreed to drop your sentence from Azkaban prison and release you back into the Wizarding World as a full-fledged wizard." He takes a break, nodding down towards the chains around Malfoy's wrists. "They've even agreed, of course, to give you back your wand."

It's been a long time since Draco Malfoy has seen his wand and the thought of it almost kills him. He hasn't cast a spell in five whole years and, despite everything, he has to admit that he's been _aching_ for it. Not having his wand makes him feel empty and incomplete. Even the mere idea of holding his wand again makes him feel only slightly whole again. It is a strange feeling that he senses creep over him carefully. He can almost breathe again.

He's almost choked up and Kingsley can see it. He takes in the way that his gray eyes fog over and his posture almost crumbles within himself. At the other end of the table, Kingsley Shacklebolt decides that five years in prison has not done anything to age the boy; he only looks tired, young, and scared.

"You would, should you chose to accompany our spare Auror," Kinglsey continues, reciting everything out loud while he figures he is still ahead, "leave for Muggle England in three days once the correct documents are filed and put in order." He surveys Malfoy only to find that the blond is just barely listening. Instead, he's watching the space before his bare feet and his dazed expression is almost utterly unreadable.

When Draco's head snaps up, however, his complexion is far more infuriated than ever. Malfoy regards the Minister's comment carefully. Is that supposed to be a _challenge? _He can refuse the man's offer as freely he bloody well pleases and that is exactly what he plans on doing; thank you very much. Watching Kingsley with a gaze of defiance, Draco quietly waits for him to kindly fuck off.

"And why should I help you?" he asks, his gray eyes sparking bits of previously un-ignited flames. In that way, he looks almost exactly like the Draco Malfoy that had been so stubborn before the War. "Why should I even bother?"

Kingsley raises his shoulders. His shrug is simple and direct, a callous up and down bobbing of his upper torso. "You do wish to be free from this place, don't you, Draco?" he asks, finally.

And Malfoy can't deny it. He does. He really, truly does.

* * *

**Vonne: **Thank you for all the interest in this fanfiction so far. I'm fairly certain that I will be juggling this as well as 'Cellar Door' for the time being. Please don't hesitate to let me know what you think. I'd love to hear everything! Thank you so much! Though his chapter was a little over 6,000 words, I plan on making the chapters much longer in the future, as well!


	3. The Million Dollar Question

**Vonne:** I am so happy that I've got so much feedback for the first two chapters. Thank you so much, I appreciate it! To show how much I do, I've been working hard on this long third chapter. I hope that you all like it! Thank you so much to all those of you that submitted a review to me!

Thank you: **Isabella120**, **CARL**, **LeCandeh**, **Psychic City**, **MCLanna**, **Miss. Lila-Russel**, **Lola La Lola**, and **Lively McBrighten**. I appreciate it so much!

**

* * *

**

_"Was always waiting for the crush_, t_he car to drive right through the shops_, t_o call in sick and late at work_, a_nd take a holiday."_**_  
_**

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Three**  
**Million Dollar Question**

Her face is tucked behind the newspaper that she holds in front of her slumped over torso. Only a massive fluff of frizzy brown hair sticks out from the side of the thing's pointed edges. She tries not to pay attention to the headline that is so obviously calling out to her. "_Three More Teenagers Found Murdered,_" it reads, "_An Entire Community in Panic_". Thus she sighs, unable to continue to put it off. But that's what she'd here for, isn't it? The teenagers, the murders, the community... With a huff, she sets the putrid paper aside.

It's Hermione Jean Granger behind the roll of Muggle-made parchment. She hasn't changed much over the five years since the end of the War, but she's certainly more tired. Her hair is still rugged and unkempt, her eyes still sparkly and hazel. One of the changes, however, comes in the way that she carries herself. Though she's seated now, she lacks a fraction of the spark she once had. Granted, she's still pretty and intelligent; there's just something missing, but none of the Muggles surrounding her seem to notice it in the slightest.

Where she's sitting is in the uncomfortable seat of an airborne plane. She blends in just like the rest of the passengers who are, of course, none the wiser. She keeps her wand tucked into the pocket of her luggage and every so often, her eyes wander up to the compartment at the top of the seats where she's stuffed it. Though she can't help it, Hermione can't help but feel somewhat uneasy without the protection of her weapon. To keep herself preoccupied, she fiddles with the front pocket of her bright red sweater. She crosses the legs of her yellow trousers. She scuffs the soles of her oxford shoes against the fuzzy floor of the stuffy Muggle airplane. She wishes with a stubborn huff that she could have just flown her broom to England.

_Whack._

A hard slam shifts the chair ahead of her and the front tray at the back of the seat nearest her comes undone quickly. With a slight crack, it tumbles out towards Hermione's knees and slaps them through the fabric of her trousers mercilessly. On impact, Hermione snaps out of her anxiety-ridden daze. Swift eyes glance around the aircraft until she finally locates the cause of the scuffle. There, peering through the slits between the three chairs before her, is the face of a wide-eyed child. His fingers grip the the ends of his seat and he stares at Hermione with matching blue pupils. Soft black hair rests closely near his earlobes.

The boy's face breaks out in a massive smile. He clamps his hands over his wet mouth, giggling, and Hermione can't help herself; she giggles back, too. Despite the grievances of the airplane Hermione cannot deny it, she loves children. And that's why she's here, to be honest, she truly is saddened by the murders taking place in the Muggle world. She remembers when she was seventeen and still in school, remembers being nervous and feeling helpless. She looks back at the boy, perhaps not any older than five, and knows that one day, he'll be seventeen too. Wriggling her fingers in a little wave back at him, Hermione hopes that he will live a peaceful adolescence.

When she boy turns back around, Hermione leans against her own stale blue seat again. She shuts her eyes and ignores the raspy voice of the pilot, statically informing her passengers to prepare finally for landing. Hermione thinks about Boulstridge Academy. She thinks about Muggle England. She thinks about getting the hell off of the fucking plane so that she can stretch her aching legs. When the plane finally plummets, Hermione promises to be the first to snap off her seat belt.

The Gryffindor stiffens as she feels the craft's wheels strike the runway of the airport. Her fingernails dig into the armrest at her sides and she offers her seat neighbors an apology for her jitteriness. Nonetheless, the very moment that they are permitted to leave their seats, Hermione bolts. She fumbles with her luggage and walks through the airport on aching feet. No one stops her for her autograph and she is not recognized as one of the saviors of the Wizarding World. She feels warmed and satisfied to find that her face is not on the covers of the magazines lining the racks of the sanitary-looking scenery. When she finally tumbles into the back of a rounded black cab, she can't help but love the sound of silence when the driver does not offer to deliver her to her destination for free.

Hermione fishes her wand out from her luggage for safe keeping. She doesn't look up at the cab driver, but instead relishes the sensation of holding her wand close again. Even being away from it for the short plane ride makes her nervous and shaken-up. "Boulstridge Prep," she announces.

There is a slight shuffle from the seat of the driver ahead of her and Hermione squints into the darkness of the closed cab. When she looks up to analyze the man, she is shocked to see that she recognizes him completely. An ample amount of messy dark hair covers the driver's entire head. His green eyes flash behind the pair of wiry spectacles at the bridge of his thin nose. He's got one arm wrapped around the car bench that he's seated at and he's wearing a red and gold striped necktie that catches Hermione's eyes immediately. "_Harry?_" she cries, jolting forward. He jumps at her shocked reaction and the glasses on his face tilt as he fumbles back in surprise, causing the cab to roll forward several inches before he realizes the movement and slams his foot down hard on the brakes. "What in the bloody hell?"

Looking a right mess, Harry smiles through the shadows created by the darkened cab. He pushes his glasses up at the top of his face and gives the girl a shaky little wave. "Hullo, Hermione," he greets her easily.

Hermione, however, is at a complete loss for words. Though the Ministry had been rather brief in their explanation of the plan, they certainly had not told her that Harry Potter was to be involved. Gaping, she stares at the boy as if she had not seen him in years. Then, lowering her voice, Hermione asks him in a hoarse and raspy whisper, "Harry, what the _hell_ are you doing here?"

Making a face, Harry's smile fades. However, he still manages to appear relaxed when he informs her casually, "I'm taking you to school, of course."

In the blackness, Harry only manages to look collected. He stares back blankly at his best mate, regarding her normally, as if he had been a cab driver throughout the course of his entire life. When Hermione's eyes dart all around the interior of the car, however, he can't help but let his features drop incredulously when she asks frantically, "what have you done with the Muggle cabby?"

"Ron took care of him!" Harry informs her, and Hermione's face reddens. She opens her mouth to ask what, exactly, he'd meant by that before deciding that she truly does not want to know. Though she can't help it, the memory of the three of them casting _stupefy_ on the trio of unsuspecting wizards in order to gain access to the Death Eater controlled Ministry flashes through her mind. Somehow she highly doubts that Ron Weasley has constructed anything differently this time around.

Suppressing her newfound worry, Hermione only gawks back at Harry, who sits nonchalantly at the steering wheel. When she speaks again, her voice is not calm, but instead equally as frantic. "Does the Ministry know you're here?"

Harry glances over his shoulder. He doesn't say anything right off the bat and Hermione knows the answer right away: they don't have any idea. "I'm the newly appointed Head of the Ministry's Auror Office!" he blinks, defensively.

Hermione almost freezes. Her eyes search Harry who, in turn, searches her back. Granted, it has not been long since she's seen him; they're neighbors along with Ron in a quaint little apartment complex a lengthy distance from Hogsmeade. Still, he appears as if he has just rolled out of bed. Even in the dark she can see the sleepless bags underneath his eyes and she decides that, just this once, she can let his brashness slide. Thus, leaning against the back seats of the taxicab, Hermione tries in vain to make herself comfortable. She asks him, "do you even knows how to operate a motor vehicle?"

Looking down at the keys, Harry gives Hermione a quick shrug. He is glad to have been let off the hook. "Well," he tells her, looking calm and relaxed, "it can't be too hard."

"Harry!" Hermione yelps, shocked, but the car jerks to an unexpected start and Hermione is thrown back against the seats. Fumbling, her hands find the seatbelt and she straps herself in, clinging on to the bottom of the chairs with her nails. Nonetheless, Harry steers them through the traffic jammed streets of the airport. He swerves and Hermione thinks she is going to loose her lunch. When he slams down hard on the brakes again for a second time, Hermione jolts forward and her chest presses against the seatbelt so roughly that it pops open the top button of her sweater and she emerges looking completely broken up. When Hermione sees Harry's green eyes look up at her from the rearview mirror, he manages to look immensely apologetic.

"Err..." he starts, drumming his spidery fingers against the steering wheel, "sorry, 'Mione."

Harry turns the car sharply, directing them on the path of the main road. Aside from a few honks from the passing cars, he does it successfully and even manages to keep a steady pace. Hermione then watches his face flicker up into a smile, feeling a bit badly for doubting his abilities to drive in the first place. Of course, she keeps her eyes peeled and her wand at the ready, just in case. "Did you have something you wanted to tell me, Harry?" Hermione asks him after running her hand through her head of hair. She's figured that there is some reason why Harry's posed as her taxi cab driver and, before she's sick from his driving skills- or lack there of- she decides that she needs to know.

"I wanted to see you off," Harry explains, looking up at her through the mirror before Hermione nods back instinctively towards the road. Following her directions, Harry positions his face back down and levels his emerald eyes. "Ron did, too, of course, but we didn't need an extra passenger and... well," Harry made a face, scrunching up his nose like a dissatisfied bunny rabbit, "he's absolute shite at driving."

Hermione sighs; she recalls. Back when she and Ron were dating, Hermione had tried to teach him numerous times how to drive a car. He could never quite get it right. Of course, Harry is a bit of an exception. With substitute parents like Vernon and Petunia Dursley, Harry had never truly been taught how to drive. Nonetheless, Hermione had to admit, Harry was a bit better- even if it was only by a fraction. "Besides," Harry continues, "I just wanted to make sure you made it to the school alright."

In the back seat, Hermione shuffles. She chews down steadily on her bottom lip and glances up at Harry's shoulders. Over the past five years, the lot of them have gone through plenty of stressful situations. But Hermione, she can handle herself. She tells Harry this properly, a twinge of a sympathetic smile playing at her lips. It's not his fault he's worried, but by now he should know- she's twenty-two years old. She's a big girl now. "I'll be alright," she tells him, and they merge into a new lane safely.

"I know you will, 'Mione," Harry smiles, though his eyes are sad and scared and Hermione does not miss the solemn expression on his gentle features. He means well and Hermione knows it. "It's just that... I'm worried about you, you know? Ron and I will miss you not being around for the year."

"Aw, Harry," Hermione scuffles, "we'll be in touch."

There is a bout of silence and Hermione leans forward. Despite herself, she unbuckles her seatbelt and places her chin like a loving friend on his slouched over shoulder. Softly, she whispers, "why don't you tell me what this hijacking of my taxi cab is really all about?" When her eyes find his again, she offers him an expression that is almost all-knowing. She cocks up her brow and pats his shoulder with a pretty little smirk.

Defeated, Harry lets out a little sigh. "Was I that obvious?" he asks her, peering around the road before he switches lanes again. Hermione is glad that it is not raining so that the swoosh of the car's wind shield wipers would not have distracted him.

"Unfortunately so," Hermione informs him sweetly and Harry clears his throat nervously.

"It's just that... this is dangerous, Hermione- no, it really is." Harry looks almost too pained to admit it out loud. "It's not that I don't think you can handle it, 'Mi, but they really are out there..." as Harry speaks, his face reddens. He's having a hard time getting out what it is that he is trying to say, but Hermione understands. She does not interject, but instead listens to his stammer through it. Mostly, she's heard what he's saying before; both Harry and Ron have told her countless times what it is she has gotten herself into. "They're out there and... you just have to be careful and keep an eye out for yourself, okay?"

"I'm an Auror now, Harry," Hermione tells him, and she's told him the same thing a million times before. "I can handle this by myself, I hope you know that."

Nodding, Harry breaths out. For just one second, he looks away from the road. "I know that," he tells her.

Hermione nods and therefore lifts her chin up from Harry's shoulder. Despite the grim expression that he wears, Hermione is going to carry out the mission that she's been given nonetheless. When she settles back down into the backseat, she pats him once again on the forearm and smiles. He's a good friend, and she knows this. Both he and Ron, they're only looking out for her best interests. However, Hermione somewhat wants to get away. It's not that she does not like living near her best friends, but she has to admit that the stress of being a famous witch has gotten to her.

There is not a street that she can walk down on where she is not being recognized. She cannot sit at a table in a restaurant without being asked for her autograph. People want her picture, men that would have never given her the time of day before want her home address. It's at the point where she feels as if she cannot escape. Though it has been five years, Hermione knows that, despite the risk, her trip to the Muggle world will be a vacation, a getaway. She needs this, she's always needed this.

In the middle of all her thoughts, Hermione realizes that it has been a good ten minutes since the two of them have talked. In the silence she stirs, smoothing a hand across her trousers and crossing her legs slightly. "It's nice that you're worried, Harry," Hermione admits reluctantly, despite truly wanting the subject out of the air completely. "Thank you."

"Course, Hermione," Harry offers, "and I know you can handle it. Don't listen to me... I'm only concerned and rambling."

"Don't be concerned," she tells him, lifting up her luggage and moving it around. She does it to give herself something to do. Somewhere in the distance, she can see the peak of the prep school start to take shape. "I'll write. Besides, Kingsley says I've got a partner." She says it to calm Harry's nerves, to make him relax. However, the boy's eyebrows only skyrocket.

In fact, Hermione's comment makes him glance suspiciously over his shoulder. He eyes Hermione and the car rocks slightly; Hermione resists the urge to make a grab for the steering wheel and direct him back into place. "Kingsley's assigned you a partner?" he asks, as if he's never heard the information before. He waits a moment and then, quickly, he clarifies, "why haven't I been told about this before?"

"I dunno," Hermione shrugs, peering over the trees that block her view of the school. She sees that the road has become more steady now and everything looks so prim and put together. There is not a single aspect out of place, despite it being fall. Even so, the orange leaves that line the ground look as if they are placed there on purpose. "Perhaps it was a last minute thing."

Harry's face crumbles slightly. He says quickly, "nothing with the Ministry is last minute."

As Harry pulls around through the trees, a long road of cobblestone stretches out before them. Hermione can only fractionally see it, but the prep school looks like a university. It's made of bright red brick and topped off with large white pillars. A large fountain in the front is made of copper and the school mascot stand poised on the rounded ball beneath it. It is a spread winged eagle and the feathers stretch out into the distance. Beneath it, the school's name has been carved in lovely print. Harry, however, does not stop to admire the lovely statue. "So," he asks, almost blatantly overlooking it, "who are they?" But that's the million dollar question, then, isn't it?

Hermione's watching the eagle. It looks as if its almost trapped in the copper. As Harry slows into the school, he turns around the fountain and surveys the deserted campus. Classes have already started and Hermione's been told that the Ministry has informed the school that their new students will be arriving late. Fake documents and birth certificates have been given out. She doesn't even need a de-aging potion; Hermione hasn't really changed since her own schooldays. "Hm?" she mumbles, caught up in the sight that the school truly is. Boulstridge Prep is certainly something wonderful to look at.

"Who is he," Harry asked, looking down at Hermione carefully. "Or she, I suppose?"

"Who?" Hermione is far too preoccupied with the grand appearance of it all. Everything looks so lovely and it really is a wonder. Big and bold, the kissing doors that lead into the school are massive. Even its little imperfections are perfect. It's just like the schools that Hermione sees in the magazines and on the telly.

A slow exhaling noise sounds out from Harry's parted lips. "Your partner," he clarifies, peering down at her over the top of her glasses.

Shrugging, Hermione is still too busy with the glorious high school. She finds it hard to believe that there have been numerous amounts of murders here over the past couple months. It looks like nothing could even go wrong here. "Oh," Hermione whispers, pushing her hair behind her ears and watching the scene shift as they pull to a closer stop, "I dunno."

"What do you mean you don't know?" Harry asks, his foot is, once again, on the break and he whirls around to face her, eyes wide behind his spectacles.

"I mean Kingsley hasn't told me," Hermione shrugs. She's not too worried about it. Hermione gets along with all the other Aurors in the Ministry anyways, she'd be happy with whomever Kingsley had picked out to accompany her.

For a moment Harry stares at Hermione wide-eyed, his mouth dropped. He can't believe Hermione's casualness. However, once he manages to collect himself, he only breaths out, sighing to run a clammy palm across his pale face. "That man sometimes..." he murmurs before falling silent. "You'll owl me and let me know who he's chosen, then?"

"Harry," Hermione reminds him, bending down to retrieve her bags. She has to stuff her wand back into it so that it is not seen upon her arrival, "Muggles don't use owls to communicate."

Blinking, Harry only shakes his head slightly. "Right," he mutters, and then makes a face, "enchant the fireplace then?"

Laughing, Hermione nods in agreement. "Alright," he confirms, but instead leans over to open the cab door. "I don't know why you're making a big deal about this, Harry," she says to him before she even manages to swing it out, "you know I get along well with everyone in the department." Then she steps out from the car, extending her foot onto the ground only to lug her bags out behind her. They make a loud knocking sound as they hit the floor, but then Harry whisks himself out from the driver's seat to stand at the other end of the car and wait for her.

"I'm not making a big deal about it," he interjects, but when Hermione gives him a doubtful look, he lets his shoulders drop in defeat. "Well," he says slowly, "just let me know, okay?"

"I said I would," Hermione shrugs, looking back up at him. She is not angry or concerned, but she takes in Harry's saddened facial expression carefully before leaning back against her large luggage. "I really_ am_ going to be alright, you know, Harry," she tells him finally, once the silence finally gets to her. "Okay?"

Nodding, Harry pushes his glasses back up towards the top of his face. He manages a sweet little smile and runs his hands through his messy black hair. "I know," he tells her, "I know, Hermione, you're brilliant."

"Thanks, Harry," Hermione beams. She feels a bit different now that she's here and everything is set in stone. However, she leans forward and wraps her hands around Harry's neck, burying her face into the crook just between his neck and his shoulder. It takes not a moment for Harry to respond back, lifting his arms to hug her tightly. They stand there for a moment, the cab's engine still running, and the orange and red leaves pick up and swipe lightly at the back of Hermione's tip-toed feet. "Give Ginny my best," Hermione whispers to him and smiles when he does also.

Harry nods against Hermione's hold. When the two release one another from their hugs, Harry says, "will do." Then, swallowing, he clamors back into the car, pulling the front door shut with a forceful pull. Hermione watches him fiddle with the keys again before reaching to roll the window down. Over the engine, Hermione can barely hear his voice when he asks conclusively, "do you have everything you need?"

"Of course," Hermione smiles; Harry's much like a really great parent, worried sick. She lets it go, of course, because it's true; everything Hermione can possibly need is stuffed neatly into her large suitcase. And additionally, she's placed an extendable charm on the thing.

Winking, Harry puts the car into reverse. "I should I known," he tells her and then, a bit more solemnly, he says, "keep an eye out, Hermione. Let me know if you see anything strange."

Hermione's smile is still persistent on her face. She chews on her lower lip and resists the urge not to leap in the car and steer him away for herself. "Goodbye, Harry!" Hermione waves.

Harry's smile tugs at his lips similarly. "Goodbye, Hermione," he laughs, wriggling his left hand to salute to her. His wedding ring flashes in the sunlight and Hermione can't help but laugh along with him; Harry truly is happy.

She watches as the black taxi cab pulls away from the school. It backs up and then turns back around, making a slight semi-circle around the massive eagle fountain. A bit shakily, Harry pulls the car away from the school and then, finally, drives into the fall afternoon. Hermione does not stop waving until she can no longer see him at all. Then, spinning back around to the gorgeous preparatory school Hermione reminds herself of the same thing that she has been repeating over and over again forever: she can do this.

* * *

The first thing Draco Malfoy does when he is released from prison is order a hamburger.

It's a nice, big, and juicy one, too- the type his father would disapprove of. However, considering the circumstances he thinks he deserves it and, for the most part, he's scarfing it down as if he hasn't eaten a single bite in five whole years. Where he's at currently is in the backseat of a black taxicab, luggage at his feet and burger in his grip. It's only been a half hour since he'd stumbled from the airplane and piled into the car, but Draco had set his priorities beforehand. He'd skipped going to the academy straight off- what he'd needed was lunch.

They are just pulling away from the drive thru window when Draco unwraps it. Even the fattening, unhealthy look of it makes him want to cry. After years of prison shite, Draco Malfoy considers his sandwich a great, greasy masterpiece. The cabby only gives him one strange glance which Draco overlooks because he is far too infatuated with his meal. He wants to devour it, to push it in his mouth and eat it whole in one bite, however, he can only stare down at it and he thinks himself pathetic as his eyes begin to well up.

The three days that it took for the Ministry to get Draco out of prison had gone by almost too slowly. The last day, however, had been only strange. They'd given him permission to a long shower and Draco scrubbed his body in rough circles, just to get the stench of prison off of his skin. He hadn't slept a wink during the night, either, and Dolohov, who had heard inklings of his release, had made certain that unconsciousness was impossible. Yet, when morning came, Malfoy couldn't have been more relieved. They'd unhooked the chains around his wrists and shoved a pile of old clothing in his arms. They'd packed a suitcase already for him, led him through the dripping old hallways by his forearms. Draco Malfoy, he hadn't minded much. Once they'd shoved him out into the real world, he was finally able to breathe in the fresh air.

He'd even sat through the entire airplane ride without making the slightest face. Anything, including the cramped and stale craft, was better than Azkaban. He'd noticed the undercover Ministry men watching him as he made his way through the airport, as well- but he only smiled, waving back at them as they peered over their Muggle sunglasses to give him warning looks. They were watching him and he knew; that was okay, he was finally free.

Thus, when Draco scrambled into the taxicab, he'd half expected the cabby to be part of the Auror team. He was grateful to find, however, that the man was no one he had ever recognized before. He'd even given Draco a strange look at the luggage he'd lolled around before putting the vehicle into drive. However, currently Draco could care less about the glances he gets every so often from the man in the rearview mirror. He's only just focused on that damn burger.

"You going to eat that?" asks the cabby when they're back on the road again and Draco hasn't even tried a bite. He's watching Malfoy through the rearview again as if he wants to take it from him. Fat and stout, the man offers Draco a slight smile before returning his eyes to the road and picking up the pace.

Malfoy snorts a little through the sneer he's giving the Muggle. "Of course," he says without any real substance, but doesn't lean in. His fingers drum at the side of the sandwich buns and he furiously pushes the tears from his eyes with one free hand so he does not embarrass himself. When he notices that the driver is still looking, he opens his mouth and takes his first bite.

The burger is absolute heaven. Granted, it is a heart attack on bread, but it is so pleasant that Draco doesn't even slightly care. He's almost frozen to the backseat of the car, savoring every single second that the bite is still wet inside his mouth. Almost helplessly, his eyes shut as he continues to chew it. It's an absolute disappointment when he feels the massive chunk of his bite slide down his throat and, when he opens his eyes again, he is humiliated to find that his vision is fogged over by more tears.

"Bit of an emotional meal, is it, kid?" the cab driver asks. Malfoy's head snaps up again, his blond hair still an absolute mess. Red, he stares back at the driver, who wears a look of humored concern wrinkled across his face. "Been driving a taxicab for seventeen years now, and I've never seen a person shed tears over a fast food burger before. You're the first, mate." Scoffing, Draco turns away from the mirror to fold his burger back up within the crumpled wrappings; he does not want to embarrass himself any further and instead opts upon finishing his meal later in the afternoon when he can be alone.

Stuffing the wrapped burger back into the fast food brown bag, Draco gives a reluctant sigh and presses his blond head against the car's glass window. He breathes out slowly, only just to steady himself, and waits to gain composure. When the man in the front clears his throat, he still does not open his eyes. "I didn't mean to offend you," says the Muggle and Malfoy doesn't say a word.

In truth, he doesn't know what to think about Muggles anymore, since he has wasted so much of his life loathing them. However, with the War done and over with, Draco sees such detest only fractionally different. They're only ignorant, Muggles. He neither loves nor hates them. Only, they remind him of the Death Eaters all over again and a sharp pain at his forearm makes him reconsider the Dark Mark that has not truly begun to fade yet. It's strange now, being in Muggle England and, in turn, being surrounded by the lot of them. Without his wand, the Ministry has done a fantastic job with making him feel like one of them. Thus, exhausted, Draco remains silent. He does not answer the cabby and his ind wanders back to the burger in the bag at his side. He thinks, _stupid man_; all he'd wanted to do was have a bite to eat.

Nonetheless, the taxi driver clears his throat again. He smoothly turns a corner in the road and sniffs disgustingly a collection of snot in his nose. "Where'd you say you were going again?" he asks Draco, as if he is trying to clear the air.

"Boulstridge."

The very moment he says it, the cab swerves. Fumbling, the cab driver reaches over to the radio and spins the dial down as if he has not heard his passenger correctly. Then, swallowing, he regards Draco curiously, his eyes scrambling all over him from his minute view at the mirror. "_The _Boulstridge?" he asks, daunted, "the prep school?"

Ignoring the fact that his pale cheek is stuck against the back seat's window, Draco nods up and down as if his destination truly is no big deal.

"The school with all those _murders_ taking place?" chokes the cabby. The car makes another harsh jeer and Draco's head is lifted from the glass only to be slammed back against it in the process. The cabby isn't even looking at the road anymore. He doesn't care that his carelessness has cased Draco a slight head injury and has plummeted his sandwich bag to the ground. Instead, his eyes are wide and owl-like. He's gaping and unbelieving. His knuckles on the steering wheel, they're almost ghostly white.

Begrudgingly, Draco reaches down to whisk his food up from the floor. He peers into the bag, almost crushed to find that the burger has unwrapped itself. There's sloppy lettuce all over the place. The delicious burger looks as if it has been completely massacred. "That's the one," Draco responds.

"Now why on earth would you want to go there?" asks the driver, his large chin bobbing up and down as he questions him. His face is pale and white. Something about his demeanor makes Draco think that, for a second, he desires to turn back.

Draco shoots his driver a heated look, thrusting the bag of food next to him bitterly. "Well," he says after a short while, "if you _must_ know, I'm going to school there."

The cabby regards Draco carefully before breaking out into a smile. His face turns vibrant instantly, a warm glow of bright red overtaking his features. And then he's laughing. He laughs so hard that spit flies out from his mouth. He pounds against the dashboard and jolts against the seatbelt. His eyes water up and he makes an absolute spectacle of himself. When he's finally done with his fit, he turns around, glancing over his shoulder to say, "well it was nice knowing ya', mate!"

His laughter starts up again and Draco's face forms into a desolate scowl. It's as if the Muggle driver can't get enough of it, either. He's in the front trying to speak through his words, waving newspapers that have been collected in the front seat back at Draco as if to prove his point. "I'm surprised," he says after a while, "they haven't shut down the school! The dean is getting a hell of a lot of backlash about it, you know." Then, in between hiccups, the cabby tells him, "I'd lock my dorm room at night if I were you, pal."

Scoffing, Draco bends over to collect his things. He lifts the luggage onto the seat next to him with a slight huff and narrows his eyes. "Thanks for the advice," he hisses sarcasticaly.

Regaining himself, the cabby does a double take. It's obvious that he has not meant to offend Draco. Nonetheless, he smoothes out the front of his jacket and wipes the tears from his eyes as he maneuvers the car to the left. Draco can see it, the lovely school in sight. "Err..." chokes the cab driver, "sorry, mate. I didn't mean to offend you or anything."

The rest of the cab ride is taken in silence. Draco doesn't look at the newspaper and he certainly doesn't look at the cab driver. Instead, he regards himself in the reflection of the backseat window. Looking into it, Draco studies his appearance. He's worn and exhausted from the plane ride, but he's happy to find that he doesn't look like an inmate any longer. And, to top it all off, he doesn't really mind what clothes they've given him. In all honesty, it makes him feel nice to wear anything besides his dirty old prison clothes. And he's looking almost strangely presentable, too. He wears a gray sweater over a pressed white button up. The black tie around his neck makes him blend in and he almost appears proper. He'd slipped on a pair of dark trousers and polished leather shoes earlier in the morning. For the first time in a long time, he's not completely disgusted about the way he looks.

Breathing in, Draco smoothes his shaggy blond hair behind his ears. It's getting long now and it falls just an inch below his earlobes. In the front it dangles stubbornly and mingles in to his glossy gray eyes. He's not worried about how he'll do at the school. Rather, all he can think about is the way in which everything feels so much nicer outside of Azkaban. He never, ever wants to go back. And even, when the car slows to a halt, Draco's in too much of a thought to realize that they've even arrived. It takes a moment and the cabby to lean back with his hand outstretched for Draco to come to. "Here you are, kid," the driver says to him, wriggling his fingers to hint for his fee, "here's your school."

Malfoy reaches into his pocket and pulls out what he owes. He says nothing when he piles out of the cab, leaving his destroyed hamburger in the backseat for good measure. He stumbles out of the car to place his feet on the solid ground. The wind around him picks up and its like nothing he's ever felt before. Everything is so perfect and its almost pathetic. Draco smells the fall so clearly, senses everything so easily. It's definitely not Hogwarts, but its definitely not Azkaban and the thought makes Draco's knees feel weak and useless. He gives the school a quick look around to make sure that the Ministry men have not followed him. There's no one- not a soul. He, Draco Malfoy, has been left alone.

For a second he thinks about making a break for it before coming to the conclusion that he really would have no place to go. Draco does not want to live a life hiding out amongst the Muggles and, instead, he decides that he'll do his job at Boulstridge if it means his freedom in the Wizarding World thereafter. His mother needs him and it is enough to keep him going, just the mere thought of it. He'll do whatever it is he has to do and get out of Boulstridge as soon as he can. Thus, Draco steers his feet into action, ignoring the cabby who yells out the window, "have a good year, son!" before speeding off around the spread eagle fountain and off into the distance.

And then he too breathes in to make his way up the grand steps to the pretty, magnificent school. But despite the spoiled burger and the sadistic cab driver, Draco is merely certain of one thing. Though for now it is only temporary, he is so glad to be free.

* * *

**Vonne: **I feel like I'm on a roll with updating lately, huh? Please let me know what you think of the third chapter. I'd love to know all your thoughts and critiques. I do really read them all!


	4. Night Stroll

**Vonne: **I know it's taken me so long to update this story, but I'm finally catching up with all my updates lately! I'm so happy to have a semi-long chapter ready for everyone that has been waiting for this chapter. Thank you so much for all the reviews I've gotten so far. I'm so glad that you're ready to read the rest of EiNI. Please don't hesitate to leave me a review. It will definitely help motivate me to finish up chapter five, which I am, believe it or not, working on currently.

A great big thanks to all of you that reviewed on the previous chapter, including; **Juventus**, **GusGus Gamgee**, **Mionexx**, **Isabella120**, **Jade2099**, **DramioneLover87**, **Miss. Lila-Russel**, **Lola La Lola**, **MCLanna**, **LeCandeh**, **Milo**, **Psychic City**, and **Carl**.

Now...

* * *

_"Karma police, arrest this girl. She stares at me as if she owns the world. We have crashed her party."_

**

* * *

**

**Chapter Four**  
**Night Stroll**

They scoot her to the back of the school and seat her down properly in the seat before the dean's desk. They shake her hand and tell her how happy they are that she's attending, but Hermione can't help but think that they're only thrilled to have her replace the newly deceased others. No matter, because they are smiling big and grand and they show her to her rooms after handing her a schedule and even lean in to open the door for her. It's the dean, of course, that leads her there. He's a peckish and middle-aged man with a head of gray hair and a face covered by spectacles. He looks rather ordinary, but he converses with great detail, resting his hand on Hermione's shoulder in a friendly manner and even offering to carry her books. He says, as he steers Hermione through the portrait-laced hallways, "we're very happy to welcome another wonderful addition to Boulstridge Prep!"

Of course he is. Hermione knows that Boulstridge Prep is loosing their students. She doesn't mention this, but instead walks alongside the dean, who's name is Veryl Miles and who's eyes dart around the school as if on lookout for some unseen killer. He wears a dark navy blazer and his polished leather shoes slap the floors quickly. He makes promises that Hermione only half listens to; she's watching the black and white photographs that hold her gaze, though she's certain they're not supposed to. Everything about the school is perfect and Hermione feels almost overwhelmed when she hears Veryl Miles clear his throat to speak to her again. "You're going to love it here, Ms. Granger, I'm sure of it."

She says, "I'm sure I will, Mr. Miles, thank you!" and stands by her dorm room where she's told she'll meet her roommate. When she shakes his head he regards her with a worried expression and then turns his back to make his way down the halls with his hands behind his back and his eyes on the space directly in front of him. He leaves Hermione only for a moment until she pulls open the door and breathes in the warm air of her new bedroom.

It's a spacey place with two short beds. Only one side is decorated and Hermione almost instinctively scowls at the wave of obnoxious pinks that blind her view. A wall filled with Muggle magazine cut outs stands at Hermione's left and splayed out across the mattress is a bubblegum purple bedspread. On the other hand, Hermione's bedside is bare- white and naked without personality. She wonders what her roommate will think of the colors red and gold before she decides she couldn't care less and starts donning her Gryffindor Quidditch flags above her bedpost anyway.

"Uh... hi."

When Hermione spins around, she finds herself starting into the stature of a thin and pretty female. Brunette, her hair is almost perfect and she even manages to look idealistic in her navy school uniform. She has an upturned nose and a set of narrowed eyes. Her curves are lovely and she looks to be shorter than Hermione, despite her staggering high heels. There's a 'Scrunchie' loosely fitted around her thin arms, and she's crossed her hands across her admittedly large chest to stare back at Hermione with her slender brow raised.

"Oh!" Hermione practically springs upwards from the bed, red and gold decoration going everywhere. "Hello!" she exclaims and her hand is outstretched. Her lips are curled up into a wide smile and she steps towards the girl in a lengthy stride. "I'm Hermione Granger." It's the first time she's has to introduce herself in a long time. It feels nice not to have to meet someone that already knows who she is. The uncertain look on the girl's face is almost comforting. "I'm your new roommate."

"Pleasure." Still unmoving, the girl standing in the doorframe takes Hermione's hand and shakes it almost cautiously. She's not smiling like Hermione expects her to be. Instead, her expression is almost vaguely unreadable. Something about her appears almost dominant in a strangely reluctant way. She does not take the time to introduce herself. "I see you've done some... decorating?"

"A bit," Hermione admits, but she's more preoccupied with the face that the girl has strode away from her. She regards Hermione's decorations carefully, her eyes scanning the walls coated in red and gold lightly. No smile tugs at her lips. Instead, she wears a casual grimace, her brown hair draped over her shoulders properly. And something about her reminds Hermione of Draco Malfoy. Despite being a Muggle, she carries the same pompous demeanor that Hermione had come to associate the blond with. Her brows only tilt and arch at the wall and she does not even try to offer Hermione a bout of adoration. Rather, she shifts her head and chews decisively on her bottom lip without saying much of anything at all.

Finally, when she's finished her scrutiny, she turns on the ball of her heel. "What's a Gryffindor?" she asks blatantly and Hermione, open mouthed, finds herself gawking.

She doesn't supply any sort of answer, but instead watches the brunette shrug and make her way out the door. There is a tip-tap clopping noise of heels against the floor and Hermione watches her leave in silence, for the first time in her life, wishing that her name had such a status as it had in the Wizarding World. However, it is a notion that she swallows quickly, blinking curiously after her before letting the strange meeting fade. Thus, with aggressive arms, she tugs up the clothing at the surface of her bed and stares down at the uniform that has been laid out for her. It's a lengthy plaid skirt and a pressed white polo with a wide-spread eagle in the breast corner. She considers the skirt's long length and wonders for a split second how many rolls her roommate had to hitch her skirt up to get it as short as it had been. Hermione, however, slips the skirt on as it is intended to be, spinning around to face her reflexion in the mirror of her new roommate's side of the room.

In the outfit, she does not look twenty-two, but seventeen all over again. It shocks her for a moment, but Hermione runs her hands through her head of frizzy hair and frowns uneasily at the imprint on her chest. It reminds her so much of Hogwarts, yet nothing is the same. The dorm is fit for two and Hermione almost mourns the loss of a comfortable common room. Swiftly, she moves her brown eyes out the crack of the fractionally opened doors and, despite herself, finds that she misses the moving castle staircases.

Even, for a split moment, Hermione thinks that Ron and Harry will burst into her room with sweets and, when no one comes calling, Hermione simply sighs and tugs on her socks before turning back to her small and fluffy looking bed. She takes one steady glance at it and then flops down upon the thing, spent. And perhaps it has been the plane ride that has worn her out, or Harry's impossible driving, or even the unbelievable rudeness of her roommate, but either way, Hermione is out the very moment that her head hits the pillow.

* * *

Malfoy's locked himself in the bathroom in fear that the Ministry has decided takes him back.

School is like a refuge, a place to hide. Certainly, he has not yet grasped the reality of his role as 'bait', but he doesn't care enough to consider it. What he knows now is fresh air, and clean clothes, and half-eaten fast food burgers. Dementors don't roam the halls of Boulstridge Academy, guards don't sneer at greedily at him from the opposite side of his barred cell. Dolohov is not his neighbor. No one screams through the corridors in the dead of the night.

Shaking his head, Draco Malfoy tries not to think of Azkaban prison. He breathes in the flowery stench of a sterile wash room and the powdery aroma of bath soap. Though unrelaxed, Draco's back is pressed up against the single bath and his legs are stretched out in front of him, crooked. His luggage, wide and opened, it sprawled out next to him, clothes that he'd never thought he'd ever see again reaching and spilling casually out over the sides. He glares at it wearily, a mixed feeling of emotions surging in his torso and then, because he is not quite sure how much more of this he can take, he runs a shivering hand through his shaggy blond hair and leans back, pressing his eyes shut as he rests his head at the edge of the neat and poised bathtub.

It had been a whole hour since he'd been shown to his room by the dean, a wiry old man with a head full of hair who reminded him nothing of Albus Dumbledore. To Draco's appreciation, the man had let him be and the Slytherin was relieved to find that, despite previous bags in the room, he had arrived alone. Nonetheless, the very moment that the door had been shut behind him, Draco's loss widened. He had found himself staring into the vast whiteness of the room, looking through the window as if he'd spot Kingsley at any minute, ready to drag him back to Azkaban. And he couldn't take it. The surge of panic rose up in his chest all over again and, staggeringly, he'd rushed to the bathroom door, swung the lock, and blinked incredulously into the blank space around him.

The room smelled like mints. Upon the porcelain sink sat a toothbrush and a packet of toothpaste. The towels on the side had been neatly folded and put into stacks and, at the end of the shower, someone had placed a mat, as if sliding and slipping would be a rather inevitable option. However, Draco had stumbled towards the sink, gripping either side of it harshly before managing to look up and face his reflexion in the glass mirror ahead of him. He braced himself for the worst, peering through forcefully shut eyes before beathing out and opting to face the music.

Malfoy's visage, though paler than it had been before, was only semi-bruised. He took in the appearance of his skin, touching the charmed flesh that the Ministry had used to subside most of his prison-induced imperfections. Then his gray eyes glide down to the collar of his own shirt. He'd stared for a moment before pulling it off shakily, letting it fall to the floor by his feet before even garnering enough courage to look up and take the set of it in. His chest, of course, was one of the bits that the Ministry had not bothered to heal. Slit and cut and tainted, Malfoy had stared at the surface of his skin, wide-eyed and shivering. He'd noticed the Septum Spectra left behind across his flesh, along with the others that had been, of course, carved by the hands of Voldemort and his Death Eaters alike. And he'd traced the lines that they made, beginning at his collarbone to his ribs, to his pointed hip bone, to the waistband of his trousers.

In a moment of defeat, rather uncharacteristic for such a prideful boy, he'd pulled himself closer to the glass and rearranged himself. He'd though then of his life in the Manor, hexed and cursed and torn to shreds. His skin- swollen, and aching, and rugged- no longer glows with the perfection of any inherited Malfoy gene. Rather, he appears in every way that he had been- left to die, left to rot, left to suffer. Then, swaying despite himself, Draco had found himself dizzy. It was, of course, how he'd ended up on the floor in the first place- slumped down and away from the reflexion, blinking away at the blandness of the bathroom in front of him.

Now he wills himself not to look down on his chest and, in a seize of something panicked, lunges forward for his shirt and presses it up against his chest heatedly, as if blocking any possible way to gaze down and see them all over again. And it feels strange and unfamiliar all at once, being out of Azkaban, breathing in air that is fresh and scented and pleasant. He doesn't know _what _to do, so he sits and stares and breathes, his blond hair covering his face, his gray eyes fogged and unfocused. His eyelids grow heavy before he can feel them, drooping down with the lull of his heavy head and his tired torso. And then, just as he's about to fade into sleep, the door to the dorm creaks open and Malfoy hears timid footsteps bounce off the walls around him.

Scattering, Draco stumbles to his feet, slipping across the tile and colliding with the sink in the process. He ignores the newfound pain in his side, reaching for his shirt to yank it back over his head intensely. He takes one last look in the mirror, smoothing his hair back uselessly before it simply just falls into his eyes once again. He curses, tugging at his collar before leaning towards the knob of the locked bathroom door and wrapping his fingers around it readily.

However, the thing is pulled away from him before he can even manage and, within moments, he is nose-to-nose with the face of a short and slender boy through the other side of the doorframe. Draco blinks back at him, unsure of what exactly to say, but instead stupidly darts back to the bathroom and, like a well-trained prisoner, reports, "I was just washing my hands." There's a pause for a moment and the boy looks past Draco to the bathroom with an eyebrow raised. He's wearing glasses and the shine of the sunlight through the window makes them flash for only a second. When he looks back up at Draco, he says nothing. Nevertheless, the unimpressed expression on his dodgy face spells out the word, "So?" and Draco takes the hint almost appreciatively.

Draco wonders, for a moment, how to act like a Muggle. He takes in the stature of the boy and tries to burn it in his mind. Then he considers the way he's dressed; gray sweatpants hang across his narrow hips. He's wearing a plain white t-shirt and his feet are shoved in a pair of bulky looking tennis shoes that Draco's never seen before in his entire life. He says nothing, but instead shrugs his shoulders and turns on his heel and, quizzically, he lets out a lingering sigh and turns back to the wooden desk by his bed to bury his face within the confines of an already opened book.

And then Draco realizes all over again why it is that he does not understand Muggles. He stares, gaping at the boy's hunched over back and fights the urge to swivel him around and hex him silly. When he realizes that he's wandless and considerably invalid, he suppresses the growl that rises up like bile in his throat. He thinks, "_Prick,_" and straightens out the crumbled shirt that covers all the scars that he'd only just recovered from beforehand. Then he looks out the window one last time, hoping not to see Kingsley, and remembering the conditions that he was brought out of prison on in the first place.

"_Muggle_," Draco mentally says to himself. "_Think 'Muggle_'." Then he strides forward from the doorframe of the bathroom and approaches the bent over outline of his newfound roommate. He braces himself to put on a show that he's never quite put on before. Thus, out comes his hand and he holds it next to the boy's side, fingers uncurled and ready for a shake. Perfectly Muggle-like. He turns the corners of his mouth up into a friendly smile and even manages to straighten his posture ever so slightly. When the boy turns back around, Draco looks like the perfect picture of an adolescent pretty boy. "Looks like we're roommates," he smiles.

It takes a moment for the seated boy to register the hand. He eyes Draco up and down and then, without moving, says blatantly, "I requested to have a room to myself this year," and really, Draco had not seen that one coming.

"Oh." He says dumbly, and withdraws his hand.

He feels stupid, but turns dazedly away from the boy and flops down on the nearest bed, eyes narrowed at the ceiling as he feverishly chews down on his bottom lip. He thinks of how silly the Ministry is and wonders why on _earth_ anyone would want to spend an entire year with bratty high school students, anyway. Then someone clears their throat around him; it takes the blond a moment to realize that its the boy all over again.

"What's your name?" he asks, his eyes rising up over the lenses of his wiry spectacles. His mousy brown hair sticks out at all different angles and it looks as if it were trimmed by someone in the dark.

Malfoy's head comes up. He wonders if, perhaps, the boy will come around to him eventually. So, true to his previously good intentions, Malfoy pushes himself up from the mattress and instead sits on the edge of it. "Draco," he says, like a true gentleman, "Draco Malfoy."

The boy's face crumbles. He looks as if he's somewhere in between laughing and calling him a bullshit liar. "Well, 'Draco Malfoy'," says the kid, turning back to his books, "your bed's over there." He jabs his thumb out to the undecorated bed at the opposite end of the room and Draco's eyes scan the mattress all over again, feeling his face flush in ways that he'd never truly thought possible. "You're currently on mine."

_Bugger. _Draco Malfoy doesn't remember Hogwarts being this blood difficult. But the boy just stares at him and, mumbling bitterly to himself, Malfoy pulls himself off the mattress that isn't his and stalks over to his rightful place, staring at the popcorn ceiling before making a grab towards the single pillow and slamming it down over his head for good measure. _Bloody git,_ he thinks and, despite himself, wishes that Vincent Crabbe wasn't dead.

He sits there in silence and neither of them talk for hours. The sun goes down. The lights at the exterior of the prep school flicker on. A voice on the loud speaker announces that every student should be back in their dorm rooms at this hour. They don't explain the reason, but its not as if they all don't know; there's a murderer on the loose, after all, isn't there? And still, the school dies down around them. Footsteps die in the hallway, doors click shut and voices simmer down. Malfoy sits with his head underneath the pillow and, before he knows it, dozes off. He dreams of things like flashing green lights, and hissing snakes, and half-dead men that brand him with the Dark Mark. He wakes up before the screaming can end and, when he comes to, he's surprised to find that the day has completely gone and even his roommate is tucked beneath the covers of his own bed, back turned away from him in a distinct manner that makes Malfoy wonder if he's done it on purpose.

If the boy has heard Draco's nightmare-induced whimpers, he hasn't let on. He doesn't snore, but the silent breaths that shift his body let Draco know that he's fallen asleep. And for a moment Draco lies on the sheets to consider the bedroom and the admittedly comfortable bed that he occupies. He thinks about Azkaban before deciding that he doesn't want to think about it anymore. Still, the silence is overbearing and the lack of whispers almost unnerves him. Nothing about the school is like the prison and, despite himself, a large lump wells up in the pit of Draco's dry throat. The walls don't close in on him. Dolohov's voice does not seep through the wind to his ears in the night. He realizes that he's had a peaceful sleep for the first time since the Death Eaters moved in to the Manor.

But still, something isn't right and Draco can sense it. He knows the feeling of demons in the night and, though faint, his entire body almost quakes with the notion that they're out there. Leaves whoosh by the patio of the school in the darkness. The wind whistles by the window and the shadows of the tress make funny pictures on the walls of the room. Malfoy's fingers clench the sheets that he still lies on the surface of. A newfound sense of heat makes him tug off his sweater and, shakily, he rolls up the sleeves of his oxford shirt.

Something hisses in the darkness. There's a howl that, to the untrained ear, sounds just like that of a coyote. With that, Draco Malfoy lunges out of bed and makes a grab for the lamp at his roommate's end of the study desk. Shaking, he winds up the cord around the fingers of his left hand and hauls the lamp over his shoulder, breathing unsteadily. For a split second, he swivels around in the blackness, but when the scrapes come again, he just about loses it.

He doesn't know why he does it, really, but he reaches towards the door of the dorm room and pulls it open just a tad, slipping his thin body through the thing in the process. He's without a wand, but he shuts the dorm door and presses his back against the wall to stare down into the corridors of the school, darkened with the fullness of the night. And everything is silent now, but Draco's certain that he'd heard it. Fenrir. The Death Eaters. A cold shiver runs down his spine. He grips onto the lamp tightly.

When he starts forward, he does so with bare feet that barely touch the wooden floor. He creeps past the shut doors of his newly appointed school mates and tries to steady his breath. But the school is large and he stumbles through it like a madman, eyes narrowed with the faulty complexion of trying to pass off as prepared. And even he is not one hundred percent certain as to what it is he's doing; armed with a useless lamp, Draco pushes the thoughts of stupidity out of his head and slides along the walls in preparation to beat Fenrir Greyback to a bloody pulp, even though the mere thought of the man makes his legs feel like jelly and his stature waver on impact.

He wants nothing more than to see the life leave the Death Eaters eyes. Each and every one of them. But he tries not to think of the recollections he has of them, for they slow him down and make him want to crumble upon the floor and burry his face in his hands and cry like a child. Thus he braces himself for the plunge, steadies his feet upon the ground and thinks not of the past, but of the future; of killing the Death Eaters and leaving the school and living with his mother, his poor mother, to finally be at peace. More than anything, he wants that.

When another footstep hits the floor that is not his, however, he almost significantly loses his balance.

_"Fuck!" _The swear escapes his lips in a horrified sort of sense and he slams his back against the wall, feeling stupid for bring the lamp along with him in the first place. And in the shadows he lowers his figure, pressing his eyes shut and feeling silly in the way that a collection of sweat beads at the top of his forehead next to the start of his unkempt blond hair. But the footsteps do not stop and they're slow, patient, and Malfoy thinks that tonight he might die just before he spots a slender shadow, there at the end of the way.

He thinks about the Ministry and what they plan to do when they find out how he's died. He think about the school, thinks about his roommate (the _prat)_, and lastly, he thinks about Azkaban. He wonders what the world will do without him before deciding that they'll probably get over it and move on. It's a thought that angers him to his very core and he thinks, for one last time, that he'll show them. Thus, he doesn't think of the useless lamp when he raises it; rather, he steadies himself with full-blown form and decides, "Fuck it all, anyways," when he growls and surges forwards, just about ready to bash their bloody heads in.

A gasp hisses out from the blackness and then he hears the utterance of a spell. Then the lamp flies out of his tightened grip and Draco Mafoy hears someone mutter a silencing spell just before he's about to call for help. _"Levicorpus!" _Bugger.

When the lift of gravity pulls him up from his feet, Draco feels the rush of being flipped over as a horrified whine slips from his throat. He squeezes his eyes shut and braces for the kill, lifting his dangling hands over his face and fanning them over the lids of his eyes. He thinks, "this is it." They're going to find him mutilated on the floor in the morning, a perfect example of the prep school's newest student. Lovely. He hopes he's at least somewhat appealing as a corpse before deciding that he probably wouldn't be.

The thought of the impending pain makes him shiver. And he just wants to live in peace with his mother. "Don't kill me," he begs.

"_Kill_ you?" rasps a voice. It sounds like a female's, but Draco thinks that perhaps he's going crazy. "_Lumos." _The bright white light that shines in Draco's eyes makes him shrink back and he squeezes his eyes shut even tighter. He feels the blood rush up to his face and, just as he's about ready to feel nauseated, the same voice lets out another gasp all over again. And he thinks that perhaps this Death Eater likes to play with its food before changing his mind when the voice says out loud, _"__Malfoy?"_ Draco's eyes snap open at the call of his name. It's dark, but the globe of light that emits from the end of his captor's outstretch wand provides enough for him to see Hermione Jean Granger, right-side-up and gawking. "What in the bloody hell are you doing here?"

Malfoy considers Hermione and takes in the sight of her printed pyjamas. She's pulled a red jacket over them and she looks warm, save for the obvious flush that's crept over her flustered face. "Oh, you didn't know?" Draco asks through gritted teeth, telling her sarcastically, "I like to wander the corridors of Muggle prep schools in my spare time." He feels the overwhelming urge to strangle the living daylights out of her and, before he can pinpoint where exactly his anger has derived from, he refocuses on the blood that rushes up to the top of his hanging head. "Let me down from here now!" he demands.

But Hermione shakes her head. She looks more confused than angry. "Why aren't you in Azkaban?" she asks, unsympathetic at the bluish color that Malfoy's visage has taken on. And though Draco hasn't seen her in what feels like ages, he remembers exactly why it is that he hates her.

"Put me down, you filthy little-"

"Answer the question, Malfoy!" Hermione calmly lifts the edge of her wand to Draco's exposed neck and, despite himself, he stiffens. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask you the same bloody thing," he hisses, and Hermione's face twists.

Still, the girl doesn't waste a second. Something in her brown eyes flashes and she stares at the exposed part of the Dark Mark that peeks out from the rolled up sleeves of Draco's button-up shirt. She seems to consider it for a while and, as if he hadn't thought about the exposure of it before, Draco yanks the sleeve of his top down and scowls at her. Then Hermione's eyes snap back up to his and she looks rather pleased to announce, "I'm an Auror!"

And then the pieces of the puzzle fit together and Draco realizes with a hard hitting smack that Hermione- Hermione fucking Granger- is the other witch. She's his partner. Though Kingsley had been very fuzzy on the information of who it was he's be working with, Draco spots the clues now more than ever. He thinks, "that _bastard!" _and then feels sick at the very thought of working with her, period. Aloud, he curses. "Fuck."

Hermione frowns bitterly. She seems a bit angry by his choice in language, but nevertheless straightens her back and regards him with a whole new feeling of superiority. "The Ministry should be coming to retrieve you any moment now," she assumes, stupidly.

"Oh, I highly doubt that," spits Draco, and he twists about in the air as if doing so might send him back to the floor. "Now let me down! I'm starting to feel sick."

But Hermione does not let him down and Draco, infuriated, makes a swift lunge towards the wand tucked neatly between her fingers. Hermione, however, is far too quick; she wastes no time in taking a simple step backwards and, enraged, a third growl escapes from Draco's throat. She looks unaffected by the dart he'd made at her, more preoccupied by the statement that he'd just let tumble from his lips. Still, she sizes him up and crosses her hands across her chest, wondering why it is that she's still humoring him at all. "Why do you mean, you doubt that the Ministry isn't coming to get you?"

Huffing, Draco does his best to wipe the ill expression off of his face. He suppresses the urge to be sick all over Hermione's shoes, taking on the expression of what he hopes appears stubborn. "Now why would the Ministry come and get someone that they ordered to be here, Granger? Honestly, have you not figured this one out yet?" Red, Hermione makes a face before the expression that she creates diminishes completely. There's a split second where she says nothing, but afterwards, her lips part slightly and her eyes widen; and it looks like she's seeing Draco Malfoy for the first time in the hallway all over again.

"You!" she yelps, and the concentration of her levitation spell breaks completely. When the invisible barrier holding Draco up gives way, he crashes to the floor in a heap, barely missing the end of Hermione's untied shoelaces. "You're my... my _partner_?" The way the words fumble from Hermione's mouth makes her sound young all over again. She stares down at the blond, wide-eyed and horrified, her fingers loose on her wand as if she isn't quite sure that she's allowed to hex him anymore.

"And they say," Draco sputters, dusting off his clothes to work up an expression that is angry and hostile, "you're _bright?"_

It is, admittedly, the first time that Draco has seen her in years. From his view of her on the ground, Draco takes in the mess of her unruly hair, still an outright mess. She looks strange in her pyjamas, which are nothing more than a pair of maroon sweatpants and a golden night shirt. He notes that she's just as tall and slender, and she still looks something like the girl he'd loathed in Hogwarts, back when they'd shared classes together. Still, he resists the urge that she's taken the Gryffindor thing too far with her colors, before he rises to a kneeling position and feels the blood drain back down into the rest of his body. He doesn't need to thank her for the wave of nausea that washes over him. The outraged look he gives her suffices enough.

But she stands over him for a while, helpless as he swallows the bile in his throat, and watches him clamor to his feet like a drunk. With great effort, Malfoy swings himself towards the wall of the corridor and braces his back against it, feeling a bit embarrassed by the lamp, discarded at the far end of the hallway as a reminder of his blatant stupidity. He's glad she hasn't mentioned it, but hates her for disarming him anyway; he thinks that it is absolutely unfair that she's been given her wand and he hasn't. Who does Kingsley think he is, anyway? Still, Hermione seems almost obviously unable to collect herself and she breathes in a fragmented manner before finally sputters, "This has to be a mistake. Y-You're dangerous..."

Draco winces at her concluding words and forgets all about the noises he'd heard in the hallway before. He assumes that it was just bloody Granger, making it impossible for him to relax his easily agitated mind. "It's no mistake," Draco chides, snapping his head back up at her. "Ask _Kingsley _if you must." Then he slams his head back against the wall and sneers bitterly at her, as if it were Hogwarts all over again. "It's not as if I'm happy about this, either."

"But..." Hermione starts, still not directly looking at him. Her eyes dart around the hallway as if she's trying to sort everything out on her own. "Why you?"

"You really are thick, aren't you?" Malfoy snaps, and he just wants to go to bed.

But Hermione's face contorts and she seems to snap out of her delusion to accuse, "That's rich! You're a bloody Death Eater!"

And, surprisingly, her comment hurts. He doesn't expect it to, but it does and, for a moment, he stands against the wall just staring at her. Then finally, he feels himself snap. "You vile little-"

"OI!" A shout from down the corridor makes both Hermione and Draco whirls around and, shaking her wand, Hermione outs the light and stuffs her weapon out of sight, plunging the two of them back into the short lived darkness. There is, however, a ray of newfound light that peeks around the curve of the school and, instantly, a flashlight beam finds Malfoy's pale face, making him wince and turn away, a deer caught in the blood headlights.

Unblinded, it doesn't take Hermione more than a moment to place a face to the voice; and her footsteps clamor away from Draco as she stiffens, murmuring under her breath as the light snatches away and the figure of the dean comes into view. He passes between glances back and forth from Draco to Hermione and, once he brings himself close enough to garner a proper view, asks, "what in God's name are you two doing out of bed?"

Draco, ever ill, stammers thoughtfully. Hermione, however, is right on her game. "I thought I heard a noise, professor," she says sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I just wanted to find out what it could have been. Then I saw Draco here..."

"That is unnecessary, Ms. Granger," huffs the dean. He looks stricken, but relived to have found two students alive, rather than brutally murdered. "We have guards all over the place at the school. Your job isn't to patrol the grounds."

"I'm sorry," huffs Hermione, and Draco snickers at the pathetically submissive way that she does so. However, when the Muggle dean glances in his direction, just as expectantly, he whispers the same like a good little boy. "It won't happen again," Hermione lies.

And so the dean scoots them off to their rooms like a strict parent and Draco shoots Hermione a hostile expression as they part ways. He stalks down to his door and watches Hermione's back as she shrinks down the hallway to her own. Then he thinks he'll kill Kingsley Shacklebolt for making his life a living hell. Nevertheless, Draco stumbles into bed and pushes the pillow over his head and wonders why it is that his roommate only looks up at him before pulling the covers back over his own and returning to the wall as he had beforehand.

He thinks about his mother for the third time in the night. He wishes he could dream pleasantly about her and the times he'd spent with her as a child, but he doesn't.

Instead he dreams about death, and snakes, and schools that burn to the ground. When he wakes, he finds that he's slept through the alarm, that his roommate has left, and that he really, _really _hates high school.

* * *

**Vonne: **You know what to do!


	5. One, Two, Three

**Vonne:** Hello! Thank you everyone for the fantastic reviews! I'm sorry it's taken me a while, but I have the new chapter up and ready.

Also, if you have time, please check out my newest one-shot "Malfoy Manor is Not Haunted". I'm planning a sequel in the works and I'd love to hear your opinions! Thank you, thank you!

* * *

_"He seemed impressed by the way you came in. 'Tell us a story I know you're not boring' I was afraid that you would not insist. 'You sound so sleepy just take this, now leave me'."_

* * *

**Chapter Five**  
**One, Two, Three**

Several drips of rain hit the pavement outside Boulstridge Academy. The very moment Hermione Granger places her foot outside of her dorm room, it outright pours.

_"Bugger,"_ she thinks_, _deciding that her stay at the school has just gone from bad to worse. It doesn't help that Draco Malfoy- _the _Draco Malfoy- is the work partner that Kingsley Shaklebolt has failed to tell her about. And really, she's just about had it up to her neck with the Ministry and their secrets. She considers, for a moment, the fact that being left in the dark truly does bother her before deciding to send a nasty letter to the Minister himself about it. Or, of course, as nasty as she can manage. She'll tell them how, of all people, she can't believe that they've decided to put Draco Malfoy in with a bunch of children. Surely, they'd reconsider; Harry certainly would.

A smile tugs at her lips. She stares out into the gray skies ahead of her and thinks about Harry Potter some more; yes, he'd be absolutely outraged, if anyone. And, that being said, he surely has every reason in the world to be. Hermione thinks about Draco and the Dark Mark and seeing it on his arm just he night before. It's been years and the mere sight of the thing still renders her at least somewhat nervous. And while she tries to swat the thoughts of her anxiety away, Hermione Granger keeps one thing in mind. She promises herself that, once Draco Malfoy is out of the picture, she will be just as competent as she knows she can be. Then, feeling slightly better about her chances, Hermione brings her books up to her chest an lifts her hood over her head, scanning the atrium of the prep school before bracing herself to run out into the turmoil.

Over and over again she recites verses in her head that egg her on. She's a good Auror, she tells herself; she can handle the pressure of something so mind-numbingly gigantic. She thinks she might not get a new partner, but then tells herself that, either way, its better than working with Malfoy. Then she finds herself half-wishing that Ron and Harry were there with her; at least they'd have had something better to say to Malfoy than she had the night previously. As she rushes through the rain, she silently scolds herself for just standing there and _gawking_ at him like a school girl. To make herself feel better, she forces a laugh at how pathetic he'd look with the aid of a bloody lamp above his shoulder. Bleeding twat.

When the toll of the large clock above her chimes once, Hermione picks up her pace. She's not late; in fact, she's running rather early, but the urgency she has to be first in class still persists within her as it had back all those years in Hogwarts. Still, she huffs when she makes it through the storm, yanking off her red hood and letting her frizzy brown hair bounce out from beneath the fabric. However, the moment she stretches out her slender hands to push the door open to the other end of the school, a loud pop sounds out behind her and, for a moment, she thinks- because she is with Muggles, after all- that someone has shot a gun. Only when she whirls around, books scattering all over the place, does she find she's guessed a mile off target.

Because, instead of a murderous madman, there is a large, black figure in the center of the outside space. His back is turned away from her, but his royal blue robes catch her eye instantly. And the way the wind picks up the hem of his cloak makes him appear important, even in the Muggle aspect. Every swoosh of wind that fumbles from his broad shoulders slides off in a profound manner that makes him appear statuesque, stiff as a board. Hermione recognizes him right away; Kingsley Shaklebolt, just the man she wants to see.

He makes a slight turn on his heel and regards Hermione tentatively, and spots her discarded books. Helpfully, the man raises his wand and the collection goes flying. In a rewinded motion, they sputter up from the ground and rearrange themselves in a neat stack, the water dripping off from them instantly, as if they'd never been soiled by the rain at all. He watches Hermione make grab for them, pressing them back against her chest, and a wiry grin forms across his face as he hastily stuffs his wand back into his robes. There's no one around to see, but when he strides forward, it is almost as if the rain isn't even touching him. "Mrs. Granger," says the Minister, and Hermione's smile is just as crooked. "Lovely weather we're having this evening, isn't it?"

Hermione's eyes sweep the scene. "It's raining," she says dimly. When Kingsley smiles again, he does so rather guiltily.

Then again, he doesn't wait to beat around the bush. After a few short seconds of staring back at the Auror in the rain, the great man heaves in a sigh and says with what Hermione regards as actual boldness, "It's come to my understanding that you've met your partner."

"If you're talking about Draco Malfoy..." Hermione begins and her face flushes in a way that may have challenged a tomato. Kingsley doesn't answer her. His lips flatten into a straight line and, despite the fall of his shoulders, takes on a rather steady demeanor. And, because of the way that her chest tightens, Hermione's face twists into a grimace and, mustering up as much of the courage she can, shakes her head to say, "I don't understand."

"Most wouldn't," Kingsley counteracts, and he tips his head slightly so that that blue cap he wears slides across his bald scalp ever so slightly. "It's important, Ms. Granger, that the Wizarding World does not know of this. A vast majority of the population still believe that Mr. Malfoy is behind bars in Azkaban prison."

And Hermione wasn't certain she could believe her ears because, without a doubt, Kingsley Shacklebolt had told her that he'd put the danger of the Muggle and Wizarding World aside on purpose. Yet the flattened expression on his face floors her and she stands, wearily, in the downpour as it flattens her hair and makes her mascara run down her eyes. She feels, more than anything, out of the loop. Nevertheless, she sways on her feet for only a second before redirecting her eyes back into his and, without missing a beat, challenges, "The Ministry is lying to the public?"

"In a sense," is her answer, and Hermione spots the slight flush of guilt that creeps over Kingsley's dark features just before it fades into something transparent.

"Bullocks," Hermione mutters and she does so as she shoves her hair from the front of her face with a slight frown.

But Kingsley only nods, and his expression is just as understanding, a trait about the kind man that Hermione has grown to hate. Still, he nods down at her, peering over the drops of rain to announce calmly, "Nevertheless, the Death Eaters will, in time, sense him here. He's still got the Mark, after all."

And so Hermione blinks. She's not exactly sure she's collected the implications of his words, but she gets the gist of it and, when she looks back up at him, she dares to ask out loud, "So, Malfoy's the bait?"

And without much hesitation, Kingsley says, "Yes."

Nevertheless, the moments tick on and, all the while, Hermione thinks, _"Okay, I can handle that." _If anything, Draco Malfoy _deserves _to be the Death Eater's bait, really. And, of course, the move is not a stupid one. She thinks that, if anyone knows what it is that they're doing, it's Kinglsey, and, all things considered, its not like the remaining Death Eaters wouldn't want to get their hands on Lucius Malfoy's son. There have been known ransoms over his head, of course.

It's not as if she really believes he's going to get hurt, but still, the mere notion of his assistance is made better in the sense that he'll be left out of her way. She thinks then of the saying 'Out of sight, out of mind' and feels content with it. When her eyes meet back up with the pupils of Kingsley's, she asks almost steadily, "And what if he runs?"

"I give you permission to hex the living daylights out of him," replies the newly appointed Minister of Magic. The mere sentiment makes Hermione's morning just that much better.

She says, "Accepted," and when the prep school finally begins to buzz alive with the rest of her brand new classmates, Kingsley digs into the confines of his deep blue robes and hands her a sheet of parchment, which she takes rather reluctantly.

"Your class schedule," reports the man briskly, and then, when the bell sound off once, he disappears completely from sight.

* * *

Hermione has often heard the phrase, "hatred is like burning down a house, just to get rid of a rat."

To that, she has two words: Draco Malfoy.

Imagine a nice patterned loveseat. Imagine a round wooden coffee table, a collection of fine wines in the cabinet. Imagine having that rat run around the house every night, dodging all the traps set out for it and leaving footprints and food trails throughout the living room, just to taunt you. Imagine seeing it run by on a nightly basis just out of the corner of your eye, in the reflection of the window panes, dropping shite in your pantries. Hermione, she sees it in two ways; keep the fantastic furnishings, or acquire proper peace. What it all dwindles down to is the match and the gasoline, the wand and the spell. She can wither live miserably with the rat in her lovely little house, or live contently with the knowledge that it will never walk the face of the very ground it torments ever again.

In her mind, Hermione sets up two situations. In one, she's civil and adjusted; she sees no desire to rid the world of the mangy little creature because it is not her place to do so. It's the Type A experiment that she's grown so accustomed to over the years, the one that she tries so hard to mimic. She'll have to live with the rat, and pick up its messes, and scatter when she sees it slip out from the hole in the wall. She'll grow old with it, yet the outcome will not be romantic and, surely enough, the retched will will certainly get to her. Insanity, she thinks, will be her only outlet. Perhaps, she'll lose her mind with the chaos, obsessing over the thing until finally- finally- she snaps.

And what that leaves is the Type B situation- the savage one. It's the imaginative outcome where, after trying hard to live comfortably with that dammed rat, she decides to take matters into her own hands. Indefinitely. She takes the match in one hand and the gasoline in the other. She stares at the loveseat, the coffee table, and the wine cabinet. Then she stares at the rat hole in the corner and she thinks, material possessions or revenge? Terrific tapestries or silent serenity? It's a hard choice, but she's a smart girl and she knows how these things can be replaced easily. And besides, she thinks, they're tattered and torn from the rodent, anyway. Pesky little thing that it is, her whole house is a complete mess, come to think of it. It's the sort of sub point to Type B, the sort of hidden small print. She could care less about furniture and fabrics and floorboards because, in the end, the rat's still there. The rat still wins. So she burns the house down, to extract her revenge.

Hypothetically, of course.

Still, its the _thought_ that passes through her mind when she looks at him; blond head bent down low over an open notebook, Draco Malfoy hasn't even _glanced_ at her since the start of class. Instead he makes stupid little doodles with his ink pen on the lined pages and, all the while, pretends to be listening to the teacher who smiles at him in an almost flirtatious way that makes Hermione's stomach churn. He'd been late- the _arse_- and still, he'd clamored to the front of the classroom, clearly disheveled, to sit next to a short, slender boy near the front. She'd even noticed some hushed whispers since his arrival, too, namely from the female sort of course. And if Draco had noticed, he certainly hadn't made any indication, nonetheless, it's Hermione who has to endure their childish chatter from her spot in the back.

"Oh," one of them coos as she leans over to a friend at her right, "check out blondie." And Hermione's fingernails grind into her palms. She chews feverishly at her bottom lip, scribbling notes about ordinary flowers that have nothing to do with Herbology or other interesting things, like Devil's Snare. "Didn't think they made them like _that _anymore."

And what a stupid thing to say, really. Hermione has seen plenty of attractive young men since her arrival at Boulstridge. However, the girl in front of her seems to agree. "God," she muses, chewing the end of her mechanical pencil with the expansion of her posterior teeth, "he's bloody _gorgeous._ Where in the bloody Hell do you think _he _came from?"

A list of possibilities runs through Hermione's heated head. "_Perhaps prison?"_ she wants to suggest all-knowingly, but instead, she scratches down more of her notes.

"Certainly not from around here," muses the first girl, who pushes her hair to the side and scans the Slytherin up and down with a flash of her eyes, hungrily. "Even disheveled, he looks like a bloody Aristocrat. God, he's delicious."

And its the most Hermione can take. Though she says nothing, the girl peeks up from the frizzy heap of her brown hair to stare shameless at the two nearest her, only to find that she recognizes at least one of them. Though the girl remains nameless, its her roommate that Hermione spots, Scrunchie tied tightly around her wrist, sporting a rather devious expression that appears determined, as if she has been contemplating the urge to rush up to the boy and devour him. Yet, she does not sense Hermione's gaze and, instead, supports her cheek with the flat of her palm, a rather loud popping sound emitting from her mouth as she snaps slowly at her chewing gum.

"Christ, Jenna, you're _ogling_!"

Jenna. The very moment that the name is uttered, Hermione runs through all the possibilities in her head. _Jenna, _she thinks,_ Jenna. _And then the pieces come together all at once. _Oh God,_ she thinks then,_ Jenna. _It's the Jenna from the reports, from the night of the murders in the woods. It's the Jenna that she's read all about, the Jenna that had barely escaped the Killing Curse, who had been there when the group of their schoolmates had been murdered. And she, Hermione Granger, was rooming with her. Mentally scolding herself, Hermione wonders why she hadn't put together the obvious before, thinking now of how much _sense _it had made and, equally as much, wondering what sort of strings Kingsley had pulled to make the arrangements so. But Hermione had thought that the girl would have opted out of returning to school, or perhaps, transfered. Nonetheless, its the undeniable pull in the pit of her stomach that tells her she's right- she's found the right Jenna.

This, she thinks, is the type of Auror assignment that she's used to. _This _she can handle. And, all of the sudden, her day gets just that much better.

"I'm not 'ogling', Claire," the girl insists, and her face falls in an almost horrifying way, making 'Clarie' retract just a little. "Besides," Jenna adds intently, "there's something about him..."

"Certainly," agrees Claire, far less pretty and far less demanding than Jenna, whose face seems to contort with her every expressed emotion. "He looks so... unobtainable."

But this only pulls a small snort from Jenna, who rolls her eyes and, all the while, appears to burn holes into the back of Draco's huddled head. Then she puts her fingers into her mouth, draws out the big, pink wad of gum from her lips, and sticks the wet glob underneath the surface of the table in a sneaky sort of manner that makes Claire glance up to the back of their professor in the front. She hasn't noticed, and Claire lets out a tiny little sigh of relief while Jenna leans forward in her chair and crosses her lengthly legs at the ankle. "No one," she says, "is unobtainable."

Hermione Granger doesn't have to wonder whether or not Draco Malfoy is unobtainable. With all her core, she wants to lean across the table and tell Claire and Jenna exactly how obtainable Draco really is. He'd been, as the Muggle students in the room did not know, recruited to the Death Eaters by his father and the Dark Lord. He'd obtained the very Mark that he covers now with his long sleeved sweater. They can't see it, but Hermione knows that, with one swift touch, he'd be retrievable within the afternoon. The very hour. Perhaps only a moment. She wants to tell them, but she doesn't; rather, instead she slumps against her seat and thinks instead about Aurors and how, given the circumstances, they all have to deal with pests.

And sure enough, she feels sorry for all the girls who stare at him from across the room, for there's plenty and the lot of them make Hermione want to dispel her lunch. They don't know, of course, because how could they possibly? For she thinks that, if they knew, he'd be locked up, just like he had been back in Azkaban. She wonders, for a moment, what they'd think, should she expose him now, before her better sense gets back to her and she thinks, instead, of keeping calm. It's no use, she scolds herself, crying over spilt milk. And its the infuriatingly blond view of the back of his head that the girl finds the most aggravating so, to collect herself quickly, she tears her eyes away and blocks out the annoying conversations that circle out into the room around her.

Certainly, he's a twat, but he's been appointed to the school by Kingsley himself and Hermione, she has complete trust in him...

* * *

_Tick, tick, tick, tick._

He's keeping count, but- for the record- he wants it off the record. _One, two, three. One, two, three. _Like a ballet or something, those fucking ticking sounds. _One, two, three, four._

It's cliche, but the marks on the sheet of the paper count the number of minutes Draco's spent just in home period and, right now, it reads at forty-four. Forty-four minutes, and he can barely believe it. Not even an hour. He'd been convicted to a cell in Azkaban and, as of now, he begins to feel like he's going back to his roots. It's the clock that he wants to beat, but that's just the minor things and, really, he wishes that he were back in the Wizarding World with his mother, doing anything but this. This is torture. This is absolute torture. Sadism, he thinks, and he deems the whole lot of prep school professors one of them. Bloody sadists.

For a moment he wonders what its like back in the Wizarding World. He feels so detached from it now, though that much has been expected. Five years, it's been, and he knows absolutely nothing of it. And a lot has happened in five years, he's heard. Through the grapevine, the papers claim of how the last of the remaining Death Eaters have been rounded up, how Snatchers have been collected, and of how the streets are even safe to walk on at night now. Mcgonagall's been made Headmaster of the entire school. Longbottom teaches there. It's been rebuilt and, all things aside, Hogwarts looks almost as good as new. He thinks, _whoop-de-doo, the whole world's moved on. Big fucking deal, _and all the while, he hates himself for not being able to take part in it.

_One, two, three, four; has he lost count? _He hears they don't even print copies of _The Daily Prophet_ anymore, only _Quibbler'_s. Rita Skeeter doesn't work in publishing. There are no more books ridiculing the legacy that is Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore. Harry Potter, he has an entirely bloody _museum _constructed in his honor. He has a holiday labeled after him. People dress up as The-Boy-Who-Lived during the parade and Potter stumbles through a speech that he doesn't want to give. He gets a kiss from his pretty wife on the cheek every year at the podium. Harry lives on as a hero; Draco strives, condemned as a monster.

In other news, people have lost limbs, gone crazy, died off. _One, two, three, four._

If his new life _is_ like a ballet, then it is undoubtedly the worst performance he's ever seen. It's the type of recital that only a mother can love- graceful in the way that ducks are graceful, innocent in the way that Lucifer is innocent. He loses himself just a little bit more as the moments tick on, too- _one, two, three_- and each time the clock ticks another minute, he marks another inky tack. _One, two, three, four. _If the Death Eaters _do_ come to get him, he thinks, at least he'll be ready for it. At least he'll be prepared to die. Still, they say you see your very life flash in front of your eyes before you die; and Draco Malfoy isn't really up for any of that expected kind of shite. He wants to spend his last remaining days in the peaceful silence. He doesn't want to hear the voices of ghosts; he doesn't even want to think about any of it, really. He wants to be left alone. He wants days of merciless solitude. He wants to rot in peace.

Except he cannot.

But it's not as if he really gets much of a choice in the matter, anyways. In Azkaban, people come and people go, visit and vanish. Guards still stroll the hallways of their stoney stations, commanding and demanding. He still has the routine, still lives the life of prison mechanics. It's not so different in the Muggle World, either. He still doesn't have any friends, still doesn't have any options. _One, two, three, four. He hears the click of the clock on the white wall only when things have gone quiet. Other times, the classroom is buzzing with noise. __Shh, quiet girls! Care to share your conversation with the rest of the class?_

He can't even use the bloody bathroom without fear that the Ministry is watching, and that much does quite the number of his remaining dignity. Still, that's the thing about being recruited, though, isn't it? Draco Malfoy has to live with not getting choices. He has to live with his bloody roommate and the single sheet with the low thread count. He has to live with the moans of his surrounding neighbors from their adjacent dormrooms. He has to live with the nightmares and the papers and the magicless mindsets. _Tick, tick, tick. _He has to live with that God-forsaken electric clock. _One, two, three, four._

Counting the clock keeps him sane. Except not really.

Candidly, he thinks he may be losing his mind. But, that's a bit off topic.

Nevertheless, its the impending end of his life that he has to worry about now. Of all things, its the one that he really _should _have seen coming. But perhaps its that Malfoy pride that had previously kept him so ignorant. It's sad, thinking back, but its not like he can do anything about it anymore. Still, he'd never anticipated that his eternity would have ended up so pathetically; until now, of course. Now he accepts the pitiful tragedy of his existence as it is. He'd built up the anticipation of being something great, only to be shot down rather blatantly by the rest of the unamused universe. He thinks, "_ha ha, very funny, moving on_", except that it's not, and he isn't. What an awfully horrible joke. And here he is, still waiting for the bloody punch line. _One, two, three, four._

Still, he can't explain why it is that _she_ is here; the Mudblood, the one he's been raised to hate. In the twist of the dance, she enters like a hawk, or some bird unwanted and watchful. He thinks, for a moment, that she aims to kill. And she's in the back, _staring _at him like she thinks he doesn't bloody well notice. If he had half a mind, he'd have curled up his paper notes and chucked them at the back of her head. He hates her, but he doesn't do anything of the sort, because today he's an actor and, all things considered, he tries to focus in on the part. Muggle student, he tells himself. Muggle boy. Muggle studies. Muggle notes. Yet its the image of the girl that sticks in the back of his mind and, dismissing himself, he mentally strikes down every single one of them.

Hermione Granger. Hermione bloody Granger. He's never going to forget that name. It makes him laugh that she's become an Auror.

For a good hour he listens to the stout man at the front talk about leaves and dirt. He presents a prized weed to the class and the thing does nothing interesting except sit in the sun and photosynthesize. And then he thinks all over again, not about plants, but of how utterly _twisted _it is that he has to work with her. That she's been assigned to the duty of _supervising _him and the rest of the doomed prep school. He wonders if she'll be giving Kinglsey his monthly 'check-ups'. Wonders if, every couple of weeks, she'll come to him with her quill and parchment and a list of pre-planned questions that she's already designated for him. "Have you heard anything unusual at night?" she'll ask him, perhaps. Or, the more likely, "Has your Dark Mark been hurting?"

Did he mention that he absolutely _hates _her?

As Draco looks down at his scribbled notes, he thinks that, comically, she might even dare to ask him how he's doing. To which, of course, he'd reply with a big, sarcastic, "Splendid." Then a humorless laugh escapes his throat as he imagines her seated before him, school uniform still on, with her legs crossed primly at her ankles. She'd bring a quill and notepad, certainly and, every so often, she'd write thoughts about him just so she could send them off to Kingsley. Just the thought makes his blood broil and, grip tightening, he almost even tenses enough to snap his pencil. It's hypothetical, of course, but the utter likeliness of it drives him bloody bonkers. God, even as much as he loathes her, he'd have to wonder what the hell it was she'd been writing.

And then a second thought hits him like a train and he almost loses it completely in front of the whole dammed class. In his head, the altered reality of his imagination has Hermione lean forward in her seat. Finally, when he imagines she'd grow tired of his sour attitude, she'd ask, wearing the mask of a professional, "And the nightmares?"

_Bitch. _She'd bloody well have him then. Sure they'd been expected, but the thought of Granger witnessing any snippet of his vulnerable side makes him shake. He doesn't want to think about it and, thus, he wills away the outrageous thought from his head immediately, wondering where in the world it may be possible to get a Dreamless Sleep in the Muggle World anyway. Didn't they have medications for that kind of shite? Certainly Muggles didn't just _live _with their dreams...

As the last thought passes through his head, Draco scans the room only to lock eyes on the profile of his roommate, who he's taken his seat next to in the first place. It had been out of principle, really, though the boy hadn't even turned to greet him, let alone stiffen and avert his own gaze into the confines of his dingy old notebook. And Malfoy had thought then, "_bloody wanker,"_ for he quite certainly did not know how to make friends. Nonetheless, as Draco had continued his scrutiny he'd found that, all things considered, his roommate seemed to have no companions whatsoever.

No one sits within several feet of him. Aside from Malfoy, there's an empty chair on the boy's right and the student one seat over seems almost unable to tear his sneer away from the boy. Every so often, a flying sheet of rolled up parchment hits the back of the boy's head. He doesn't even flinch, doesn't even move. Rather, Malfoy notices the messy redness of his slender face and, to his surprise, the boy only leans in closer to the wooden table top, chews feverishly on the bottom of his thin lip, and says nothing.

And, to top it off, when the bell rings and the rest of the students file out, he's the first to go- strange Muggle that he is- for he slips his knapsack over one shoulder and beelines for the door so fast that Malfoy barely even catches him go.

* * *

**Vonne: **You know what to do! I realize that this chapter was a bit on the dry side, but I'm definitely going to pick up the pace after this one. I'm planning on moving this a bit faster than my previous stories, just for the sake of the whole 'high school' setting.

He seemed impressed by the way you came in.  
"Tell us a story  
I know you're not boring"

I was afraid that you would not insist.  
"You sound so sleepy


End file.
